iiil 


CARL    WERNER, 

AN     IMAGINATIVE     STORY; 


WITH     OTHER 


TALES    OF    IMAGINATION 


BY   THE  AUTHOR   OP 

THE   YEMASSEE,"    "GUY    RIVERS: 
"MELLICHAMPE,"  &c. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 


VOL.I.4W,// 


NEW  YORK: 
GEORGE   ADLARD,   46  BROADWAY. 

1838. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1838,  by 

W.  GILMORE  SIMMS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


CRAIGHEAD  &  ALLEN,  PRINTERS, 
112  Fulton  Street. 


TO 

PROSPER  M.  WETMORE, 

IN   TOKEN    OP    THE 

HIGH  ESTEEM  AND  AFFECTIONATE  REGARD 
OP 

THE    AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  first  story  in  this  collection  is  founded  upon  a  pas 
sage  from  an  ancient  monkish  legend,  which  the  lover  of  anti 
quarian  lore  will  most  probably  remember.  The  treatment  of 
the  subject  is,  however,'  entirely  my  own ;  and  the  circumstance 
in  the  history  of  the  two  young  men,  upon  which  the  catastrophe 
depends,  is  too  frequent  among  the  thoughtless  of  every  nation 
to  make  it  the  peculiar  property  of  any.  The  strifes  between  the 
rival  moral  principles  of  good  and  evil,  have  also  been  a  subject 
of  frequent  celebration  in  the  form  of  allegory ;  though,  I  believe, 
that,  in  this  respect,  my  claim  to  originality  will  also  be  undis 
puted.  In  the  character  of  the  venerable  guest  of  Matilda,  it 
will  be  seen  that  I  have  ventured  upon  a  faint  delineation  of  one 
of  the  apostles,  and  that  I  have  moreover  presumed  to  suggest  a 
notion  of  their  continued  toils  on  earth  in  the  cause  of  heaven. 
Such  a  theory  "does  not,  it  appears  to  me,  seem  altogether  incompa 
tible  with  the  history  of  the  strifes  of  good  and  evil,  as  afforded 
by  the  sacred  volume ;  and,  indeed,  must  somewhat  help  us  in  the 
hope  which  we  entertain,  according  to  the  holy  promise,  of  the 
final  and  complete  triumph  of  the  former.  I  trust,  in  what  I  have 
done,  I  will  not  be  found  to  have  trespassed  beyond  the  limits  of 
propriety.  The  other  tales,  with,  perhaps,  a  single  exception, 
belong  to  the  same  moral  imaginative  class  with  the  first.  They 
have  been  written  at  various  periods  in  my  brief  career  of  author 
ship.  Two  of  them,  it  may  be  well  to  state,  were  published 
with  other  titles  than  they  bear  in  this  collection.  The  change 
was  made  in  consequence  of  my  discovering  subsequently  that 
similar  titles  had  been  employed  by  other  writers,  which  might, 
to  the  casual  reader,  suggest  an  idea  of  identity  between  them, 
which  exists  neither  in  the  subject,  nor  the  mode  of  treatment. 
They  are  only  republished  in  this  collection  as  they  belqng  pro 
perly  to  the  classification  which  distinguishes  the  work. 


CONTENTS   OF   VOLUME  I. 

PAGE 

CARL  WERNER,    1 

IPSISTOS 91 

THE  STAR  BRETHREN 155 

ONEA  AND  ANYTA,  .  209 


CARL   WERNER 


CARL  WERNER. 


AN    IMAGINATIVE    STORY 


I. 

"  WITH  what  a  sober  and  saintly  sweetness  do 
these  evening  lights  stream  around  us.  What  a 
spiritual  atmosphere  is  here  !  Do  you  not  feel 
it?" 

My  friend  did  not  immediately  answer  my  ques 
tion,  and  when  he  did,  his  reply  was  rather  to  the 
mood  of  mind  in  which  I  had  spoken,  than  to  the 
words  which  I  had  uttered.  We  were  walking,  to 
wards  the  close  of  day,  in  one  of  the  deepest  parts 
of  a  German  forest,  through  which  the  sunlight  pe 
netrated  only  with  imperfect  and  broken  rays.  The 
vista,  which  was  limited  by  the  dusk,  was  covered 
with  flitting  shadows,  and  wild  aspects,  that  won  us 
farther  at  each  succeeding  moment  in  their  pursuit. 
The  cathedral  picturesqueness  of  the  scene  warm- 

VOL.  i.  1 


^  CARL    WERNER. 

ed  us  both,  and  when  my  friend  replied  to  me,  I 
felt  that  our  fancies  were  the  same. 

"You  have  no  faith,  I  believe,  in  popular  super 
stitions — you  never  yield  yourself  up  to  your 
dreams?" 

Something  of  a  feeling  of  self-esteem  kept  me 
from  answering  sincerely  to  this  question.  I  felt, 
at  that  instant,  a  guilty  consciousness  of  a 
growing  respect  for  the  legends  of  the  wonder- 
loving  land  in  which  I  wandered.  My  answer 
was  evasive. 

"What  mean  you  —  your  question  is  a  wide 
one?" 

"Elsewhere  it  might  be,  —  but  here — here  in 
Germany — it  would  seem  specific  enough.  Brief 
ly — you  have  no  faith  in  ghosts — you  do  not 
believe  in  the  thousand  and  one  stories  which 
imagination  hourly  weaves  for  the  ear  and  the  ap 
prehensions  of  credulity." 

"  To  speak  truly,  I  have  not  often  thought  of 
this  matter  until  now.  The  genius  loci  has  some 
what  provoked  m}'  fancy,  and  triumphed  over  my 
indifference — if  indifference  it  be.  Ghost  stories, 
though  frequent  enough,  are,  as  frequently,  sub 
jects  of  common  ridicule ;  and  the  hearer,  if  he 
does  believe,  finds  it  prudent  to  keep  his  faith  se 
cret,  if  it  be  only  to  escape  the  laughter  of  his 


CARL    WERNER.  t> 

companions.  This  may  have  been  the  case  with 
me,  and  from  seeking  to  deceive  my  neighbors 
on  this  head,  it  is  not  improbable  that  I  have  fully 
succeeded  in  at  last  deceiving  myself;  and  have 
come  to  doubt  sincerely.  But  of  this  I  will  not 
be  certain.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  not  par 
take  of  the  sensibilities  of  any  timid  urchin,  at  the 
sudden  appearance  of  any  suspicious  object  in  any 
suspicious  place." 

"Ha!  ha!  I  see  you  are  no  sceptic.  You  are 
for  the  ghosts  —  you  certainly  believe  in  them." 

"  Not  so !"  I  replied,  somewhat  hastily ;  "  I 
cannot  be  said  to  believe  or  disbelieve.  I  have 
no  facts  — no  opinions  —  on  the  subject,  and  there 
fore  cannot  be  supposed  to  have  arrived  at  any 
conviction  respecting  it.  I  have  scarcely  given 
it  a  thought,  and  my  impressions  are  rather  those 
of  the  temperament  and  memory  than  the  mind. 
Warm  blood  makes  me  jump  frequently  to  conclu 
sions  upon  which  I  never  think  ;  and  the  stories 
of  boyhood,  in  this  respect,  will,  long  after  the  boy 
has  become  a  man,  stagger  his  strength  with  the 
images  produced  on  his  imagination  by  a  grand- 
dame's  narratives  at  that  susceptible  period.  My 
notions  of  the  marvellous  arise  almost  entirely 
from  my  feelings— feelings  kindled  by  such  sto 
nes,  and,  it  may  be,  rendered  vivid  by  a  natural 


4  CARL    WERNER. 

tinct  of  superstition,  which  few  of  us  seem  to  be 
free  from,  and  which  may,  perhaps,  be  considered 
the  best  of  arguments  in  defence  of  such  a  faith." 

My  friend  mr<de  no  immediate  answer  —  a  pause 
ensued  in  our  speech,  but  not  in  our  movement. 
We  walked  on,  and  the  shadows  became  more  thick 
around  us.  The  scattered  lights  of  evening  grew 
fainter  and  fewer,  and  I  perceived  that  the  mood 
of  my  companion,  like  my  own,  had  undergone  a 
corresponding  change.  Sad  thoughts  mingled 
with  strange  thoughts  in  our  minds,  and  when  he 
again  spoke,  it  was  evident  that  he  felt  the  night. 
He  resumed  the  subject. 

"  I  have  not  been  willing  to  believe,  but  I  feel, 
and  feeling  brings  the  faith.  I  have  reason  to 
suspect  myself  of  a  leaning  to  these  superstitions, 
and  discover  myself  inclining  to  conviction  the 
more  I  indulge  in  solitude.  Solitude  is  one  of  the 
parents  of  superstition.  The  constant  wakeful- 
ness  and  warring  strifes  of  selfish  interests, 
which  prevail  in  the  city  and  among  the  crowd, 
drive  away  such  thoughts,  and,  indeed,  all 
thoughts  which  incline  to  reverence  ;  and  it  is 
only  when  I  get  into  the  country — among  these 
solemn  shades  and  deep  recesses — that  I  find  my 
superstitions  coming  back  to  me  with  a  thousand 
other  sensibilities.  It  is  then  that  my  memory 


CARL   WERNER.  O 

goes  over  the  old  grounds  of  my  childhood ;  and 
that  the  fancies  of  an  early  romance  become  invig 
orated  within  me  : — it  is  then  that  I  give  credence 
to  the  unaccountable  story  that  we  sometimes  hear 
from  the  lips  of  more  credulous  or  more  experi 
enced  companions.  Their  earnestness  and  faith 
strengthen  and  awaken  ours  —  the  fancy  grows 
into  form,  and  the  form,  at  length,  from  frequent 
contemplation,  becomes  almost  sensible  to  the 
touch.  We  continue  to  contemplate  until  we  be 
lieve  ;  and  there  is  not  a  faculty  or  sense  that  we 
have,  which  does  not  at  last  become  satisfied, 
along  with  our  fancies,  of  the  rich  reality  which 
the  latter  have  but  dreamed." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  that  they  dream  only,"  was 
my  serious  reply.  "  Why,  if  the  doctrine  of  the 
soul's  immortality  be  true  —  why  should  it  not  re 
turn  to  the  spot  which  kindred  affections  have 
made  holy  —  why  may  it  not  do  a  service  to  the 
living? — prevent  a  wrong?- — reveal  a  secret,  or 
by  some  ministry,  which  could  not  have  been  per 
formed  so  well  by  any  but  itself,  do  that  which 
may  help  the  surviving  to  some  withheld  rights, 
to  some  suppressed  truth  —  or  to  some  unlocked 
for  means  of  safety  from  tyranny  and  injustice  ?" 

"  True —  that  might  have  been  an  argument  at 
one  period  in  the  history  of  the  world ;  but  the 
1* 


6  CARL     WERNER. 

world  has  grown  wiser,  if  not  better,  in  later  days! 
—  a  thousand  modes  are  now  in  our  possession  for 
discovering  the  truth,  to  one  at  that  time  when 
spirits  were  allowed  to  return  to  earth.  The  days 
of  miracle  are  gone  by.  The  •  spirits  from  the 
vasty  deep'  do  not  come  to  us,  however  loudly  we 
may  call  for  them." 

"  Who  shall  say  that  ?"  was  my  reply.  "  Who 
shall  answer  for  the  necessity.  It  may  occur  now 
as  it  has  occurred  before,  nor  is  it  an  argument 
against  the  belief,  that  man  has  grown  wise  enough 
to  find  out  the  truth  for  himself,  after  judicial  forms, 
without  the  need  of  any  such  revisitings  of  the 
moon.  If  wisdom  has  grown  mighty  to  find  out  the 
truth,  crime  has  also  grown  proportionably  cunning 
to  conceal  it ;  and  virtue  suffers  the  injustice,  and 
vice  escapes,  even  now,  from  a  just  punishment, 
quite  too  frequently,  when  it  were  to  be  desired  that 
some  honest  ghost  could  be  evoked  from  the 
grave,  to  set  the  erring  judgment  of  man  aright. 
Coleridge  considers  it  a  conclusive  argument 
against  the  notion,  that  the  ghost  of  a  man's 
breeches  should  appear  with  him.  This  may  be 
a  good  joke,  but  it  is  a  poor  argument.  If  it  be 
once  admitted,  that  for  wise  and  beneficial  pur 
poses  the  just  Providence  shall  permit  the  depart 
ed  spirit  to  return  to  the  earth,  where  it  once  abode, 


CARL    WERNER.  / 

it  will  be  necessary  that  it  should  put  on  that  garb 
and  appearance  which  shall  make  it  more  readily 
known  by  those  whom  it  seeks ;  since  its  purpose, 
in  its  return  to  earth,  might  only  be  effected  by  its 
appearance  in  proper  person.  I  can  conceive  of 
no  difficulty  in  this ;  since  it  must  be  obvious  that 
as  the  appearance  of  the  spectre  is  the  work  of 
God,  himself,  with  Him  the  toil  is  equally  easy 
of  giving  the  spirit  its  guise  of  flesh  and  fashion, 
and  of  preparing  the  mind  of  the  spectator  so  that 
his  eye  shall  behold  the  object,  whether  it  appear 
in  reality  or  not." 

"The  subject  is  one,"  said  my  friend,  "  which 
invariably  forces  itself  upon  me  when  I  am  in  soli 
tude.  We  are  now  in  a  place  singularly  accom 
modated  to  thoughts  and  things  of  this  nature. 
There  is  a  venerable  gloom  and  gravity  about 
these  old  trees.  You  see  that  none  of  them  are 
young,  yet  the  grounds  have  neither  been  cleared 
nor  grubbed,  to  my  recollection,  for  many  years. 
The  aged  branches  have  stretched  out  innumera 
ble  arms,  and  bend,  with  their  accumulated  weight 
of  years  upon  them,  even  to  the  ground.  They 
have  the  air  of  a  group  of  sainted  Druids,  such  as 
the  Romans  annihilated.  Black  and  frowning, 
yonder  mountain  overhangs  the  wood,  protecting, 
yet  threatening.  It  has  the  look  of  a  blasted 


8  CARL   WERNER. 

thing,  and  it  must  be  a  haunted  one.  The  ruins 
which  you  behold  at  a  little  distance  to  the  left, 
admirably  consort  with  the  rest  of  the  picture.  A 
gray  mist  seems  to  hang  over  and  to  hallow  them, 
until  even  the  beautiful  knoll  of  green  which  rises 
in  front  of  them  seems  offensively  garish  from  the 
exceeding  depth  of  its  contrast.  Those  are  the 
ruins  of  an  ancient  monastery,  which  the  supersti 
tious  fancies  of  the  neighborhood  have  long  since 
peopled  with  a  fraternity  of  immaterials,  suffi 
ciently  numerous  and  wild  to  consecrate  to  their 
peculiar  purposes  a  situation  of  the  kind.  They 
are  not  often  intruded  upon,  except  by  myself; 
and  as  I  have  a  story  to  tell  which  properly  be 
longs  to  them,  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  if  I  tell  it 
to  you  there.  Some  of  the  old  monuments  will 
give  us  a  pleasant  seat,  and  among  the  dead  only, 
as  we  then  shall  be,  we  shall  be  in  no  danger  of 
suffering  interruption  or  disturbance  from  the  idle 
footstep  of  the  obtrusive  living." 


II. 


"  We  are  in  Germany,"  continued  my  compa 
nion; —  "  of  course  I  do  not  tell  you  this  with  any 
other  object,  than  simply  to  remind  you,  that  you 


CARL    WERNER. 

are  in  a  land,  of  all  others,  one  of  the  most  re 
nowned  for  its  superstitions,  its  wild  fancies,  its 
marvellous  imaginations.  The  minds  of  its  people 
have  become  spiritualized  by  the  popular  faith  ;  and 
thought  takes  the  shape  of  poetry  at  its  birth,  and 
fancy  is  busy  every  where.  Their  rivers  and  their 
rocks,  their  green  knolls  and  sinking  valleys,  their 
dense  forests,  wild  wastes,  and  deserted  ruins,  like 
these  around  us,  are  all  haunted  and  venerable. 
The  dell  and  dingle  have  their  different  spirits,  the 
wood  and  rivulet  theirs ;  and  the  gentle-hearted 
peasants  who  inhabit  them  are,  in  some  instances, 
almost  as  rigidly  tenacious  of  the  privileges  of  the 
genius  loci,  as  they  are  of  their  own  rights  and  re 
ligion.  A  tale  of  diablerie  will  not,  therefore,  seem 
out  of  place,  in  a  region  so  abundantly  supplied 
with  this  material ;  and  the  story  which  I  am 
about  to  relate  to  you,  though  differing  materially 
from  those  which  we  are  accustomed  to  hear,  is 
yet  as  native  to  this  neighborhood  as  any  of  the 
rest.  The  parties  who  figure  in  it,  were  born  in 

the  little  hamlet  of ,  not  a  mile  distant,  and 

you  will  hear  the  story  from  any  of  the  villagers 
to  whom  you  may  refer  for  confirmation  of  it. 

"  It  is  now  about  fifty  years  since  the  events 
which  I  am  about  to  relate  to  you  are  said  to 
have  occurred.  The  village  of stood  then 


10  CARL    WERNER. 

pretty  much  as  it  does  now,  except  that  there  were 
then  two  families  in  it,  of  which  there  are  no  de 
scendants  or  surviving  relics  now.  The  family  of 
Herman  Ottfried  was  one  of  the  most  respectable 
in  it;  nor  was  that  of  Carl  Werner  less  so.  The 
former  consisted  only  of  Herman,  and  the  fair 
Matilda,  his  sister;  while  that  of  Carl  Werner 
existed  in  himself  alone.  He  was  an  onlj'  child, 
whose  mother  had  been  long  since  dead,  and  whose 
father  had  died  just  before  the  time  when  my  nar 
rative  begins.  Herman  was  about  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  Carl  Werner  not  more  than  twenty- 
one  — yet  they  were  inseparable  friends.  Matilda, 
the  sister  of  Herman,  was  but  seventeen ;  and  it  is 
more  than  probable,  that  the  great  intimacy  be 
tween  Carl  and  Herman,  and  the  strong  regard 
which  the  former  professed  for  the  latter,  arose 
from  the  yet  stronger  feeling  which  he  entertained 
for  the  sister.  But  of  this  anon.  Herman  was  a 
good  natured,  laughing,  and  mischievous  creature, 
ready  always  for  fun  and  frolic,  not  easily  appre 
hensive  of  danger,  nor  always  scrupulous  about 
proprieties  in  his  pranks.  He  had  good  sense 
enough  to  keep  him  from  any  extravagant  folly, 
or  extreme  rashness  ;  and  good  feeling  enough  to 
restrain  him  from  any  excess  which  might  inflict 
pain  upon  the  deserving  and  the  good.  He  was 


CARL   WERNER. 


11 


of  graceful  person,  manly  and  strong,  brave,  gen 
erous,  and  well-principled.  The  favorite  of  the 
village,  he  was  yet  wanting  in  one  of  those  traits  of 
character  in  which  all  beside  him  were  abundantly 
provided  —  he  had  no  more  faith  in  a  ghost  than 
he  had  in  a  sermon  ;  and  though  not  deficient  in 
proper  veneration,  he  had  but  slight  regard  for 
either. 

"  In  this  respect,  as  in  several  others,  he  differed 
greatly  from  his  more  youthful  friend  and  compa 
nion,  Carl  Werner.  Carl  was  superstitious  to  the 
last  degree ;  his  memory  was  perfectly  crowded 
with  legends  the  most  extravagant,  and  he  had  a 
feverish  and  perpetual  desire,  continually,  to  in 
crease  his  collection.  He  was,  in  very  truth,  a 
dreamer — one  of  those  gifted  men,  who  see  strange 
sights  and  hear^imcommon  sounds,  which  are  de 
nied  to  the  vulgar  faculty  ;  and  his  senses  were 
accordingly  employed  always  in  scenting  out  and 
searching  after  the  supernatural.  But  let  me  not 
be  understood  to  say  that  Carl  was  a  simpleton. 
Far  from  it.  He  was,  in  reality,  as  I  have  phrased 
it  alreadjr,  a  highly  gifted  man.  He  was  a  poet 
—  a  man  of  quick  and  daring  imagination  —  one 
whose  verses  were  full  of  fire,  and  acknowledged 
to  be  of  more  than  ordinary  merit,  —  but  he  was 
rather  too  much  of  a  mystic.  Deeply  impregna- 


12  CARL    WERNER. 

ted  with  the  traditionary  lore  of '  The  Teuton,'  and 
irritably  alive  to  all  its  exciting  influences,  the  fan 
cy  which  was  in  him,  the  active  and  subtle  spirit 
of  his  thoughts,  gathered  from  all  objects  and  as 
sociations  food  and  stimulant  for  its  own  conti 
nued  exercise.  His  very  existence,  so  deeply  had 
he  drank  of  the  witch  beverage  and  been  led  away 
into  the  haunted  forests  of  his  fancy,  had  become 
rather  metaphysical  than  real.  His  life  wras  pass 
ed  in  dreams ;  and  even  his  love  for  Matilda,  so 
far  from  humanizing  his  mind  and  binding  it  to 
earth,  seemed  to  have  the  effect  of  elevating  it  the 
more,  and  of  making  it  hourly  more  and  more  spi 
ritual  ;  until,  at  length,  he  appeared  to  regard  the 
maiden  rather  as  a  creation  of  his  thought — a 
dream  of  heaven  —  than  an  object  for  the  contem 
plation  and  the  enjoyment  of  his  senses.  His  life 
was  thus  diseased  by  his  imagination,  while  yet  in 
the  green,  in  the  blossom,  and  the  bud. 


III. 


"Between  Herman  and  his  sister,  the  soul  and 
person  of  Carl  Werner  were  pretty  evenly  divi 
ded.  When  not  with  one,  he  was  with  the  other  ; 
and  when  not  separately  with  either,  he  was  sure 


CARL    WERNER. 


13 


to  be  with  both.  Though  the  tastes  and  tempers 
of  the  two  young  men  seemed  greatly  to  differ  to 
the  common  eye,  their  sympathies  ran  strangely 
together.  Their  sports  and  studies,  though  not 
alike,  seemed  nevertheless  to  bring  them  together 
always.  Their  habits  were  equally  wandering, 
and  while  the  poetry  of  Carl  made  him  musing, 
meditative,  and  abstracted  in  his  habits,  it  led  him 
the  more  to  delight  in  those  practical  tendencies 
in  the  mind  of  his  companion,  which  suggested  a 
character  directly  the  reverse.  Herman,  too,  was 
pleased  with  the  fellowship  of  a  thinking  being, 
and  one  who  could  furnish  names  and  definitions 
for  all  his  own  occasional  and  half-digested  imagi 
nings  and  thoughts.  They  had  neither  of  them 
much  system  in  their  pursuits,  and  far  less  in  their 
studies.  Books  they  read,  not  by  selection,  but  as 
they  happened  to  fall  into  their  hands ;  or,  rather, 
Carl  would  read  them,  and  describe  their  character 
and  unfold  their  contents  to  his  companion,  who, 
in  his  own  experience,  could  most  generally  re 
member  adventures  to  correspond  with  and  match 
those  which  Carl  related  to  him.  In  this  manner 
they  became  mutual  dependants,  and  hence,  some 
of  the  secret  of  their  intimacy.  They  would  fol 
low —  each  —  without  much,  or  at  best  with  a 
momentary  opposition — the  moods  and  prompt- 
VOL.  i.  2 


14  CARL    WERNER. 

ings  of  the  other  —  the  momentary  impulse  being 
the  sufficient  governor,  —  and  to  that  they  most 
generally  left  the  direction  of  studies  and  amuse 
ments  alike.  The  feeling  which  prompted  the 
one,  if  not  exactly  like  that  which  filled  the  bosom 
of  the  other,  was  seldom  offensive  to  it:  and  we 
need  not  wonder,  thus  situated  and  circumstanced, 
if  they  grew  together,  to  the  almost  complete  exclu 
sion  of  all  the  village  beside  —  the  fair  and  gentle 
Matilda  alone  being  excepted. 


IV. 


"  Let  not  my  preliminaries  fatigue  you.  I  can 
not  get  on  so  well  without  them.  My  narrative 
has  a  comprehensive  ground-work,  and  I  must 
bring  the  several  more  striking  features  of  the  lo 
cality,  in  due  order,  and,  not  precipitately,  before 
your  eye.  Having  prepared  you,  I  will  now  pro 
ceed  : — 

"Living,  as  they  did,  in  the  neighboring  village, 
and  possessed  of  tastes  equally  wandering,  and,  in 
the  case  of  Carl,  so  mingled  with  romance,  it  will 
riot  be  thought  surprising  if  they  spent  a  great 
deal  of  their  leisure  time  among  these  old  ruins. 
They  were  ruins  then,  and  no  obtrusive  utilitarian 


CARL    WERNER. 


15 


has  presumed,  as  you  may  see,  to  take  from  their 
gray  loveliness  hy  making  them  more  useful.  The 
charm  of  the  spot  is  the  same  now  as  then  —  if 
possible,  indeed,  the  beauty  of  the  ruins  is  even 
greater,  for  the  walls  have  suffered  from  subse 
quent  tempests,  and  desolation  has  made  more 
complete  her  broken  temple.  Time  is  the  ally  of 
romance,  and  decay  takes  nothing  from  her  ho 
nors  !  The  source  and  secret  of  their  beauty  have 
been  steadily  increasing ;  and  the  domain,  loved 
by  the  German  youth  of  whom  we  speak,  is,  per 
haps,  scarcely  less  attractive  now  to  us.  Touch 
ed,  as  these  dismembered  and  massive  fragments 
at  this  moment  are,  by  the  mellow  hues  of  the 
fleeting  and  flickering  sunlight,  they  are,  in  my 
eyes,  immeasurably  beautiful ;  and  seern  to  me 
as  they  did  to  Carl  Werner,  a  fitting  abode  for 
the  sleepless  and  sad  spirit — doomed  to  its  mid 
night  vigil  of  a  thousand  years. 

"  The  imagination  of  Carl  Werner  had  peopled 
these  ruins  with  a  countless  host  of  inmates,  with 
wild  traditions,  with  the  most  pitiable  and  strange 
narratives.  It  was  the  theatre  where  his  invention 
became  most  active,  and  where  he  continually  ex 
ercised  it,  as  much  for  his  own,  as  for  the  pleasure 
which  it  gave  to  Matilda  and  Herman.  He  had 
explored  the  many  cells  which  abound  among  the 


16  CARL    WERNER. 

ruins — he  had  groped  through  the  ancient  cham 
bers,  until  he  had,  from  conjectures  frequently  ex 
ercised,  come  to  the  belief  that  he  could  actually 
assign  the  various  uses  to  which  they  were  put : 
—  and,  in  some  cases,  through  the  aid  of  local 
tradition  and  domestic  history,  he  even  ventured 
so  far  as  to  say  who  were  their  occupants.  Though 
superstitious  to  the  last  degree,  and  most  wilfully 
credulous,  Carl  Werner  had  no  idle  fears.  The 
abbey  was  his  favorite  resort  even  at  midnight, 
and  with  Herman,  who  was  something  of  a  dare 
devil,  along  with  him,  a  ramble  through  the  old 
chambers  at  night,  when  the  rising  moon  began  to 
peep  through  the  cracks  and  fissures,  was  a  favor 
ite  mode  with  Carl  Werner  of  passing  those  plea 
sant  hours.  It  is  true,  that,  art  such  times,  Matilda 
never  ventured  along  with  the  two  ;  but  the  warm 
and  spirited  fancy  of  Carl  enabled  him  to  embody 
for  her  ears,  when  they  met,  the  sweet,  strange 
thoughts  of  his  mind,  which,  at  such  periods, 
formed  the  topic  of  conversation  between  him  and 
his  companion.  These  were  themes  upon  which 
Carl  never  failed  to  be  eloquent,  and  Matilda  al 
ways  loved  to  hear.  At  other  times,  the  three 
would  wander  while  the  day  lasted,  in  a  sort  of 
mental  and  dreamy  unconsciousness,  among  the 
broken  walls,  turning  thoughtlessly  over  the  mar- 


CARL    WERNER  17 

ble  stones,  laboring  now  and  then  lo  decipher  the 
inscriptions,  and  toiling  through  the  ancient 
grounds  and  over  the  green  grave  knolls  about 
the  edifice  ;  until,  as  the  sun  began  to  wane,  Ma 
tilda,  with  a  growing  and  beautiful  timidity  —  al 
ways  becoming  in  a  young  and  lovely  woman  — 
would  hurry  them  homeward,  leaving  the  unfin 
ished  story  of  Carl  to  find  its  conclusion  at  the 
evening  fireside,  which  generally  brought  them 
all  together  like  one  family.  They  were  soon  to 
become  one,  it  may  as  well  be  said,  for,  seizing  a 
favorable  moment,  the  gentle  and  fond  Carl  had 
whispered  to  the  maiden  that  he  loved  her,  and  she 
did  not  hesitate  long  to  promise  that  she  would  be 
his.  The  time  was  designated  for  the  nuptials,  and 
the  two  were  quite  as  happy  as  mutual  love,  and 
so  pleasant  a  hope,  could  possibly  make  them. 


V. 


"  One  afternoon,  a  few  weeks  prior  to  the  time 
appointed  for  the  marriage,  Carl  and  Matilda  went 
forth  upon  their  usual  rambles.  Herman  w7ent  not 
with  them.  He  had  gone  away  from  the  village 
on  some  alleged  business,  though,  it  is  more  than 
probable,  that  he  had  simply  excused  himself,  with 
2* 


18  CARL    WERNER. 

a  delicate  sense  of  propriety,  from  adding  to  a 
party  which  under  existing  circumstances  could  do 
very  well  without  him.  The  fond  Carl  had  more 
than  once  been  indebted  in  this  manner  to  the  kind 
consideration  of  his  friend.  Thus,  left  to  them 
selves,  the  lovers  wandered  off  in  the  usual  direc 
tion,  and  were  soon  embosomed  in  the  haunted 
shades  of  the  ancient  abbey.  They  seated  them 
selves  among  the  monuments,  and  discoursed  of 
the  old  time  stories;  and,  with  each  remembered 
legend,  the  timid  Matilda,  with  a  most  natural 
fear,  would  creep  closer  to  her  lover,  and  the  fond 
Carl,  with  a  most  natural  protection,  at  length  en 
circled  her  waist  with  his  arms  ;  and  the  ghosts  of 
ancient  years  were  forgotten  by  the  happy  pair,  in 
the  delicious  realities  of  their  present  situation. 

"  But  a  sudden  step,  as  of  one  approaching,  dis 
turbed  their  dream  of  felicity.  It  was  Herman. 
He  came,  with  an  air  of  impatient  pleasure  and 
slow  regret,  mingled  up  in  his  manner.  As  he 
drew  nigh,  he  handed  a  letter  to  Carl,  and  bade 
him  read  it. 

"  « It  is  from  my  uncle,  old  Ulrich  Ottfried  of 
Amsterdam,  and  he  writes  for  me  to  come  to  him 
immediately.  The  place  he  promised  rne  is  at 
length  vacant,  and  I  must  lose  no  time  to  secure 
it — I  must  leave  you.' 


CARL    WERNER.  19 

"  '  Leave  us,  dear  brother  !'  exclaimed  Matilda. 

"  '  Leave  us,  Herman  !'  said  Carl. 

"<  Ay,  leave  you  !'  replied  the  brother,  « leave 
you,  to  be  sure.  Would  you  have  me  sit  here, 
purring  like  a  tame  cat  all  my  life,  when  there  I 
have  a  chance  to  be  somebody,  and  see  the  great 
city/ 

"  '  And  will  you  leave  us,  Herman  ?'  said  the 
girl  reproachfully,  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes, 

"  '  Pshaw,  'Tilda  !  no  tears  now,  I  beg  you. 
They're  not  true  —  they're  not  natural.  You 
know  you  won't  miss  me,  and  there's  no  reason 
why  you  should.  You  have  Carl  there,  and  he'll 
be  more  to  you  than  ever  I  can  be.  He  suits  you 
better;  and  I  know  him  too  well  to  be  afraid  to 
leave  you  to  his  hands.' 

•  "  '  Dear  Herman  !'  said  Carl,  '  but  you  will  not 
go  soon — you  will  stay  to  the  wedding.' 

"  '  I  can't  —  the  letter,  you  see,  urges  my  in 
stant  departure  ;  and  I'm  too  anxious  to  get  the 
place  to  risk  the  loss  of  it  by  any  idle  delay.  It's 
true,  I'm  sorry  to  part  with  you  ;  but,  as  I  said,  I 
leave  you  both  in  good  hands.  You  love  'Tilda, 
and  she  loves  you,  and  I  believe  you  will  be  quite 
as  happy  with  each  other,  as  if  I  looked  on  myself, 
and  saw  all  your  happiness.' 

"  The  hand  of  Carl  pressed  that  of  Matilda,  and 


20  CARL    WERNER. 

her's  returned  the  pressure,  at  these  words.  Carl 
then  demanded  of  Herman  when  he  proposed  to 
set  forth.  His  prompt  answer  surprised  and  pain 
ed  his  hearers. 

" '  To-morrow,'  said  he,  '  at  early  dawn,  I 
travel.' 

"  *  To-morrow  !'  exclaimed  Matilda,  *  dear  bro 
ther,  you  cannot  mean  it !' 

"  «  So  soon,  Herman  !'  said  Carl. 

"'Ay,  to-morrow  —  so  soon  !' was  the  reply. 
'  It's  hard.  I  find  it  harder  than  I  thought,  to 
leave  you — you,  dear  'Tilda  —  for  you  have  been 
a  dear,  sweet  sister  to  me  always ;  and  you  Carl, 
who  have  been  a  brother  after  my  heart's  wish  :  I 
find  it  very  hard  to  leave  you,  but  I  can't  help 
it ;  nor,  indeed,  if  I  could,  would  I.  The  place 
is  every  thing  to  me,  and  I  can  make  my  fortune 
in  it.  My  uncle,  if  I  please  him,  promises  to  take 
me  with  him  into  business.  Read  the  letter,  Carl 
— see  how  fairly  the  good  old  fellow  speaks.  He 
is  a  good  old  fellow  —  he  always  loved  me.  I  was 
his  favorite,  'Tilda  —  he  never  thought  much  of 
you.  But,  never  you  mind  —  there's  no  good 
fortune  that  comes  to  Herman  that  you  shall  not 
share — both  of  you.  So,  it  matters  not  much 
which  of  us  the  old  man  loved  —  it's  the  same 


CARL    WERNER.  21 

thing ;  but  go  I  must,  and,  as  I've  told  you  already, 
I  go  to-morrow.' 

"  This  seemed  a  settled  matter  in  the  mind  of 
Herman,  and  it  produced  a  melancholy  feeling  in 
that  of  Carl.  It  seemed  to  impress  Matilda  even 
more  gloomily,  as  well  it  might ;  for  Herman  was 
an  only  brother,  and  having  neither  mother  nor 
father,  the  privation,  she  well  knew,  must  be  se 
verely  felt.  She  had  no  longer  spirit  to  remain 
abroad,  and  closely  attended  by  the  young  men, 
she  returned,  in  sorrowful  temper,  to  her  cottage. 


VI. 


"  You  may  be  sure  that  was  a  gloomy  evening  in 
the  house  of  Matilda  ;  and  not  even  the  well-satis 
fied  love  of  the  betrothed,  could  make  it  otherwise 
to  either  of  them.  Herman  was  quite  too  dear  to 
his  sister  and  his  friend,  to  suffer  them,  at  such  a 
moment,  to  feel  their  own  felicity  as  perfect,  just 
when  they  were  about  to  be  deprived  of  him,  per 
haps  for  ever.  The  maiden  felt  so  unhappy,  that 
she  retired  at  an  early  hour,  and  the  two  young- 
men  wandered  forth  to  talk  over  their  several  pro 
jects,  and  the  various,  and  we  may  add,  the  sor 
rowful  thoughts,  with  which  their  approaching 


22  CARL    WERNER. 

separation  had  filled  them  both.  They  had  been 
so  long  as  one  —  so  perfectly  inseparable,  hitherto 
—  that  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  if  they  were  al 
most  unmanned  by  it.  Carl,  indeed,  suffered  far 
more  than  Herman.  The  latter  had  the  excite 
ments  of  a  new  world  in  promise  before  him  —  the 
prospects  of  bettering  his  fortunes,  and,  besides 
this,  he  was  of  a  more  elastic  and  lively  temper 
than  his  friend.  He  could  very  well  bestow  con 
solation,  where  other  wanderers  would  have  needed 
it.  Carl  had  been  always  a  dependant  upon  Her 
man,  whose  excellent  spirits  and  generous  mood 
had  frequently  neutralized  the  excessive  mor 
bidness  of  his  imagination ;  and  when  the  former 
thought  of  this,  and  of  his  weakness  in  many 
respects,  he  exaggerated  to  his  own  mind  the 
greatness  of  the  privation  which  he  was  about  to 
undergo.  Herman  tried  his  best  to  console  him, 
and  U)  the  earnestness  of  their  mutual  thoughts, 
they  gave  no  heed  to  their  wanderings.  In  the 
first  moment  of  external  consciousness,  Carl  looked 
up,  and  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  abbey  were  before 
them.  It  was  a  fitting  place  for  their  last  inter 
view  and  private  conference.  The  silence  and  the 
gloom  of  the  spot  accorded  meetly  with  the  sad 
ness  in  their  bosoms,  and  they  at  once  entered  the 
sanctuary.  They  seated  themselves  upon  one  of 


CARL    WERNER.  23 

the  broken  monuments,  and  sat  for  some  moments 
in  a  moody  silence.  At  length,  Carl  spoke  as  fol 
lows  : 

"  '  I  feel  cold  all  over,  Herman,  as  if  a  breath 
from  that  old  vault  had  breathed  upon  me.  Your 
contemplated  journey  aflects  me  strangely.  I 
know  not  how  I  shall  bear  it.  I  shall  not  often 
ramble  among  these  ruins — I  may  have  the  dis 
position  to  do  so — I  know  I  will  —  but  I  shall  not 
have  the  courage.' 

"* Pshaw!'  exclaimed  the  bolder  Herman  — 
*  how  you  talk.  I  know  you  better  than  you  do 
yourself,  and  venture  to  predict  that  when  I  am 
gone  you  will  be  here  oftener  than  ever.  You  love 
these  ruins.' 

"  '  I  do — I  confess  it !  — they  are  to  me  sacred, 
if  only  for  their  recollections,'  said  Carl. 

"  *  And  ghosts  !'  continued  Herman  with  a  gen 
tle  laugh.  '  You  love  their  ghosts,  I  think,  even 
more  than  their  recollections.' 

"  '  Ay,  could  I  see  them,'  said  the  other.  '  But 
they  are  shy  ghosts,  and — did  you  not  hear  a 
breathing  ?'  *>. 

"  Carl  turned  and  looked  in  the  direction  of  thfe 
old  vault,  as  he  spoke  these  words,  but  Herman 
only  laughed  at  him.  Carl  laughed  too,  a  mo- 


24  GARL   WERNER. 

ment  after,  when  he  perceived  that  his  weakness 
had  been  observed  by  his  friend. 

"  *  You  have  nearly  roused  them,  Carl,'  said 
Herman,  after  his  quiet  chuckle  had  subsided. 
4  But  for  my  laugh  they  would  have  been  about 
you.  You  would  have  conjured  the  reverend  ab 
bot  from  that  shattered  vault,  and  a  pretty  story 
you  would  have  of  it.' 

"  «  Perhaps'  —  said  Carl ;  *  and  you  would  have 
listened  to  the  story,  Herman,  without  a  single 
interruption.  Why  is  that  ?  Why  is  it  that  you 
can  enjoy  a  ghost  story  without  believing  in  the 
ghost  ?' 

"  *  Why  do  we  enjoy  a  puzzle  which  we  know 
can  be  undone? — a  mystery  —  when  a  moment's 
reflection  teaches  us  that  it  is  no  mystery  ?  It 
is  because  the  human  mind  finds  a  pleasure  in  that 
which  is  ingenious — in  any  thing  which  shows 
intellectual  power.  A  fairy  tale  has  a  spell  for 
all  senses,  not  because  we  believe  in  its  magic  — 
in  its  subtlety  —  in  its  strange  devices  and  wild 
conceits  ;  but,  that  these  subtleties,  spells,  and  de 
vices,  appeal  to  natural  desires  and  attributes  of 
the  mind  of  man.  They  are  beautiful,  and  as  the 
appreciation  of  which  is  beautiful,  forms  the  legit 
imate  object  in  the  exercise  of  taste,  they  com 
mend  themselves  to  every  intellect  or  imagination 


CARL   WERNER.  25 

that  possesses  even  common  activity.  You,  per 
haps,  are  less  fortunate  than  myself,  since  you  be 
lieve  in  the  ghost ;  and  a  natural  sense  of  appre 
hension,  which  your  faith  necessarily  excites  in 
your  mind,  while  the  story  i?  telling,  subtracts 
from  the  perfect  satisfaction  with  which — were 
you  as  incredulous  as  myself — you  would  hear  or 
tell  it.  You  tremble  while  you  narrate,  and  your 
eyes  are  forever  looking  round  to  see  the  object 
which  your  fancy  conjures  up.' 

" '  True,  but  I  do  not  cease  to  tell  the  story.  I  go 
on  —  I  would  go  on,  though  I  beheld  the  ghost.' 

"  '  I  doubt  you  !'  boldly  said  the  other.  '  I  be 
lieve  you  might  try  to  do  so,  for  I  know  the  ex 
tent  of  your  moral  courage  ;  but  your  imagina 
tion  is  too  powerful  for  your  control ;  and  this  I 
sometimes  fear.  I  sometimes  fear  thot  you  may 
suffer  greatly,  when  I  am  gone,  in  the  conflict  be 
tween  your  imaginative  faculty,  and  your  good 
sense.  While  I  was  with  you,  I  had  no  fear  ;  for 
when  you  looked  round  for  the  ghost,  I  laid  it 
with  a  laugh.  It  will  rise  and  haunt  you  when  I 
arn  gone.' 

" '  How  can  you  speak  thus,  or  fear  this,  when, 
in  the  same  breath,  you  deny  its  existence  ?'  de 
manded  Carl. 

VOL.  i.  3 


26  CARL   WERNER. 

"  '  Oh,  I  do  not  deny  its  existence  to  you? 
said  Herman  — '  we  can  always  have  the  ghost 
we  call  for,  for  imagination  is  a  god.  It  is  the 
only  creator  under  heaven.  Yours  is  of  this  sort, 
and  the  worlds  you  people  are  sometimes  too  ex 
tensive  for  your  sway.  They  will  rebel  against 
you.' 

"  *  I  fear  them  not !'  said  Carl.  <  It  is  my  joy 
to  create,  and  I  sometimes  pray  that  with  my 
bodily  eyes  I  may  behold  the  dim  but  glorious 
visions  of  my  mind.  Yon  old  abbot,  sleeping  in 
the  dust  and  sanctity  of  a  thousand  years, —  could 
he  rise  before  me  now  and  answer  a  few  questions, 
I  should  be  most  happy.' 

"  'Do  not  trouble  yourself  to  call  upon  him  — 
he  will  not  trouble  himself  to  come.' 

"  *  Yet,  I  am  sure,'  responded  the  reverent  Carl, 
turning  an  anxious  look  upon  the  vault,  as  if  soli 
citing  the  buried  saint  to  give  the  lie  to  his  com 
rade,  '  yet,  I  am  sure,  that  it  is  not  because  he 
cannot.' 

"  '  What  other  reason  !'  said  Herman.  «  He 
cannot,  my  dear  Carl,  and  if  he  could,  he  would 
not.  He  sees  —  if  the  dead  may  see  aught  —  all 
around  him  that  he  hath  ever  known  or  loved  in 
life  ;  and  for  us,  whom  in  life  he  never  knew,  he 
hath  too  little  sympathy,  to  come  at  our  bidding. 


CARL   WERNER.  27 

There  might  be  some  motive  for  those  lately  dead 
to  reappear  at  the  requisition  of  those  who  still  have 
human  and  earthly  affections  struggling  with  the 
cares  and  woes  of  earth  ;  and  I  would  that  it  were 
possible  we  could  evoke  them.  I,  too,  should  be 
a  summoner,  Carl — I,  too,  should  pray  that  my 
bodily  eyes  might  behold — not  the  objects  of  my 
mind,  but  the  creatures  of  my  heart !  I  would 
give  worlds,  if  I  had  them,  once  more  to  behold 
my  dear  mother.' 

"  *  Could  she  know  your  wish,  Herman,  would 
she  not  appear,  think  you  ?'  demanded  Carl. 

"'The  suggestion  makes  against  your  argu 
ment.  Carl,'  replied  the  other — '  immortal  as  she 
is,  she  must  know,  she  must  hear  my  wish ;  yet 
she  does  not  appear  !  wherefore  does  she  not  ? — 
she  cannot  —  it  is  written  —  she  cannot ;  and  it  is, 
perhaps,  wise  and  well  that  she  cannot.  It  might 
alter  my  plans  —  it  might  affect  my  purposes  —  it 
might  disturb  the  existing  condition  of  things  with 
out  making  them  better.' 

" '  Herman, —  could  I  believe  with  you,  I  should 
be  unhappy  ;  but  I  cannot.  I  feel  assured  that 
the  spirit  may  return,  and  make  itself  known.  I 
do  not  say  visibly  to  the  eye,  but  in  some  way  or 
other,  to  one  or  more  of  the  senses.  Do  you  re- 


28  CARL    WERNER. 

member  the  story  of  Dame  Ulrica,  and  the  silks 
that  rustled  in  the  tiring  chamber  ?' 

"  « Ah,  no  more  of  that,  Carl ;  and  as  you  are 
now  getting  fairly  on  the  track  of  the  hobgoblins, 
we  may  as  well  stop  our  confabulation,  else  shall 
we  not  go  to  bed  to-night.  Of  one  thing  be  sure, 
if  I  can  revisit  you  after  death,  I  will ' 

"  *  Will  you  promise  me  thatj  Herman  ?'  de 
manded  the  other  eagerly. 

" '  Ay,  that  will  I,  though  I  shall  try  to  do  it  in 
such  a  manner  as  not  to  scare  you.  I  shall  sneak 
in  like  a  gentle  ghost,  and  shall  speak  to  you  in 
the  softest  language.  Will  you  really  be  glad  to 
see  me  ?' 

"  '  Glad !  —  you  will  make  me  happy.  It  will 
be  a  prayer  realized.  Promise  me,  dear  Herman  ! 
—  we  are  about  to  separate,  we  know  not  with 
what  destiny  before  us.  The  means  of  communi 
cation  are  few  between  us,  and  our  anxiety  to  know 
of  each  other  will  sometimes  shoot  far  ahead  of 
our  capacity  to  receive  or  yield  intelligence. 
Promise  me  —  though  heaven  grant  that  you  may 
live  long  year's  after  me  —  that  should  any  thing 
befal  you,  and  the  power  be  with  you,  you  will 
come  to  me  —  you  will  tell  me  of  your  own  condi 
tion,  and  guide  me  aright  in  mine  ;  for  my  sake, 
and  for  the  sake  of  your  dear  sister,  who  will  so 


CARL    WERNER.  29 

soon  be  a  part  of  my  life.     Will  you  do  this  — 
will  you  promise  this,  dear  Herman.' 

"  '  I  will — to  be  sure,  I  will,  Carl,'  was  the  re- 

Pty- 

"  l  Seriously  —  solemnly  ?'  demanded  Carl. 

"  'Seriously  —  solemnly  !' said  the  other;  'but,' 
he  continued  — «  if  I  am  to  take  all  this  trouble, 
and  expose  myself  to  all  risks  of  wind  and  weather 
merely  to  oblige  you,  you  must  do  me  a  similar 
favor  ;  for,  though  I  do  not  believe  in  any  such 
power  on  the  part  of  the  spirit  once  gone  from 
earth,  nor  am  I  particularly  curious  on  the  subject ; 
yet,  while  agreeing  to  satisfy  you,  Carl,  I  may 
just  as  well  exact  a  similar  promise  from  yourself. 
Dead  or  alive,  Carl,  it  will  always  give  me  plea 
sure  to  see  you.  I  have  loved  you  as  a  brother, 
in  life  —  I  have  no  fear  to  behold  you  after  death.' 

"  'It  is  a  pledge  —  a  promise,  Herman  !'  was 
the  ready  answer ;  and  with  the  utterance  of  the 
pledge,  a  hollow  laugh  resounded  from  the  dis 
membered  vault  of  the  aged  abbot 


VII. 

They  sprang  at  once  to  their  feet.     Herman 
laughed  back  in  return,  but  he  remained  where  he 
S* 


30  CARL   WERNER. 

was.  Carl  trembled  like  a  leaf,  but  he  leapt  over 
the  stone  on  which  he  had  been  sitting,  and  made 
his  way  fearlessly  towards  the  vault.  Herman 
followed  him.  The  marble  of  which  the  vault  had 
been  built  was  fractured  in  several  places,  so  that 
the  interior  was  clear!}  visible  from  without.  Carl 
would  have  entered  it,  but  Herman  opposed  his 
doing  so. 

"  *  Why  should  you  go  in  —  we  can  see  the  ven 
erable  dust  where  we  stand,'  and  the  eyes  of  the 
two  peered  into  the  now  silent  chamber  with  a 
scrutinizing  gaze  that  promised  to  sufTer  nothing 
to  escape  them. 

"  « Look !'  said  Carl;  *  look,  Herman!  dost 
thou  not  see!'  and  he  pointed  to  a  corner  of  the 
vault  while  speaking. 

"  The  eyes  of  Herman  saw  nothing,  however,  or 
he  was  not  willing  to  acknowledge  that  they  did ; 
but  Carl  was  more  ready  to  believe,  and  conse 
quently  more  able  to  see,  for,  even  while  he  point 
ed  out  the  object  of  his  sight  to  Herman,  he  watch 
ed  it  as  it  glided  away  through  an  aperture  of  the 
vault — a  pale  bluish  flame  —  a  fragment,  as  it 
were,  of  light  —  that  seemed  first  to  crawl  along 
the  walls  of  the  chamber,  and  then  suddenly  to 
disappear  through  one  of  its  many  fissures. 


CARL    WERNER.  31 

"  «  What  is  it  that  you  see  ?  I  see  nothing,'  said 
Herman. 

"  *  A  light  like  that  of  a  taper — a  small,  creep 
ing  light,  that  passed  out  of  the  corner  to  the 
east.' 

"  *  Some  slimy  worm,'  said  Herman,  *  though  I 
did  not  see  it  at  all.' 

"  «  Strange  !'  exclaimed  Carl ;  *  but  you  heard 
the  laugh,  Herman  ?' 

"'Yes,'  said  the  other,  'but  whether  it  came 
from  the  vault,  or  from  the  opposite  wall,  I  will  not 
pretend  to  say.  Some  urchin  may  think  to  frighten 
us  from  the  other  side.  We  will  look  in  that  quar 
ter.' 

"  Carl  now  followed  his  companion,  but  he  follow 
ed  him  unwillingly.  Like  all  true  romancers,  he 
had  got  just  enough  of  the  mystery.  He  was  un 
willing  to  press  the  matter  farther,  lest  he  should 
discover  that  which  might  jeopard  his  prize — 
which  might  enable  him,  indeed,  to  '  point  the 
moral,'  but  which  would  spoil,  rather  than  '  adorn, 
the  tale.'  This,  however,  was  the  desire  of  Her 
man.  He  would  have  given  as  much  to  discover 
that  the  source  of  the  laugh  was  human,  as  Carl 
would  have  bestowed  to  prevent  such  a  discovery. 
The  hopes  of  the  latter  prevailed.  They  search 
ed  behind  the  suspected  walls,  but  found  nothing ; 


32 


CARL   WERNER. 


and  the  benefit  of  the  laugh  was  clearly  with  the 
superstitious  Carl.  After  this  they  left  the  ruins. 
The  hour  was  getting  late,  and  as  they  had  still  a 
great  deal  to  say  of  sublunary  concerns,  it  did  not 
need  that  they  should  take  the  haunted  abbey  for 
this  purpose.  The  next  morning  Herman  took 
his  departure.  Carl  saw  him  a  little  way  upon 
the  road ;  and  when  they  were  about  to  separate,  one 
of  the  last  words  of  Carl  was  to  remind  him  about 
his  promise.  Herman  laughed,  but  freely  renewed 
it.  Was  it  a  fancy  of  Carl,  or  did  he  hear  the 
laugh  faintly  repeated  among  the  rocks  behind 
them,  several  seconds  after  his  companion  had  dis 
appeared.  It  might  be  an  echo  merely,  but  the 
circumstance  troubled  the  mind  of  Carl,  who  could 
not  avoid  thinking  of  it  for  weeks  after. 


VIII. 

"  At  length  the  dreams  of  the  dreamer  gave  way 
to  more  urgent  realities.  He  became  a  married 
man ;  and  his  bosom  was  too  much  filled  with  the 
thoughts  of  Matilda,  and  his  eyes  were  too  much 
occupied  with  gazing  upon  her,  to  permit  of  the 
intrusion  of  any  busy  ghost  or  wandering  vision 
upon  either  thought  or  sight.  Marriage  has  a 


CARL   WERNER.  33 

wonderful  tendency  towards  making  men  practical. 
The  tendency,  indeed,  is  sometimes  too  direct  and 
rapid  to  be  altogether  pleasant.  Not  that  this  was 
the  case  with  Carl.  Far  from  it.  He  was  impro 
ved  in  more  respects  than  one  in  the  change  of  his 
condition.  His  mind  needed  some  qualifying  and 
subduing  influence  to  change  its  direction — to  turn 
it  from  the  too  constant  contemplation  of  those 
baseless  fabrics  which  had  heretofore  but  too  much 
occupied  its  regards ;  and  to  bring  it  back  to  hu 
man  necessities,  and,  through  their  medium,  to  the 
just  appreciation  of  merely  human  joys.  It  is  no 
less  true  than  strange,  that  for  the  first  three  weeks 
after  marriage,  Carl  did  not  dream  at  all,  as  had 
been,  for  as  many  years  before,  his  nightly,  and, 
to  speak  truth,  his  daily  custom.  For  three  whole 
weeks  he  lived  a  common  man  —  had  earthly  no 
tions  of  things — addressed  himself  to  earthly  la 
bors —  and  did  not  once,  in  all  that  time,  pay  a 
single  visit  to  the  ancient  abbey.  But  when  the 
three  weeks  were  over,  he  began  again  to  dream, 
and  to  wander.  The  old  abbey  again  received 
him  as  a  constant  visitor,  and  the  presence  of  Ma 
tilda  with  him  did  not  greatly  lessen  his  devotion 
to  the  sanctity  and  superstitions  of  the  spot. 

"  Perhaps,  indeed,  it  was  Matilda  that  somewhat 
contributed  to  the  superstitions  of  her  husband. 


34  CARL   WERNER. 

She  was  a  religious  being  —  deeply  impressed  with 
the  spirit  of  faith  and  worship,  even  if  she  lacked 
the  divine  intelligence  which  might  have  enabled 
her  to  discriminate  between  the  holy  things  of  the 
sanctuary,  and  those  meretricious  symbols,  and 
mocking  shadows,  which  the  arts  of  one  class,  and 
the  fears  of  another,  have  decreed  for  worship,  and 
declared  no  less  holy  than  the  true.  The  spiritu- 
ette  held  a  large  place  in  her  composition  ;  and  if 
her  imagination  lacked  the  activity  of  Carl's,  her 
yielding  weakness  rendered  her  susceptible  to  the 
full  influence  of  his.  This  weakness  increased  the 
activity  of  a  faculty  to  which  it  was  constantly  ap 
pealing  ;  and  though  the  terrible  forms  and  fancies 
to  which  the  mind  of  Carl  frequently  gave  birth 
and  performance,  only  drove  the  timorous  wife 
more  earnestly  to  her  prayerful  devotions,  she 
did  not  seek  to  discourage  him  in  a  practice  which 
had  so  beneficial  an  effect.  Unconsciously  he 
practised  upon  her  fears,  moving  her  to  devout- 
ness  through  an  unseemly  influence ;  and  with 
equal  unconsciousness  on  her  part,  her  fears  stimu 
lated  his  superstitious  tendencies  even  to  error,  by 
giving  continual  employment  to  an  imagination 
which  daily  became  more  and  more  morbidly  ac 
tive,  and  consequently  dangerous. 


CARL   WERNER.  35 

"  Herman  had  now  been  gone  for  some  months. 
At  first  he  wrote  to  them  freely  and  frequently, 
but  after  a  while  his  letters  grew  fewer  and  less  sa 
tisfactory,  and  at  length  months  went  by  without 
bringing  them  any  intelligence  of  their  neglectful 
brother.  Matilda  ^sometimes  complained  of  this, 
and  thought  unkindly  of  Herman  ;  but  Carl,  like 
a  true  friend,  always  found  some  excuse  for  his  ne-  r 
gleet,  in  the  pressure  of  business,  and  the  accumu 
lation  of  other.^uties  and  friends. 

"  l  Besides,  he  need  not  write,  Matilda,  when  he 
has  nothing  particular  to  say.  No  news  is  good 
news  commonly ;  and  when  a  letter  comes,  Matil 
da,  you  know  you  always  dread  to  open  it,  for 
fear  of  hearing  evil.  Herman  will  not  forget  us, 
be  sure.' 

"  <  But  he  may  be  sick,  Carl.' 

"  That  was  always  a  suggestion  which  silenced 
her  husband,  and  he  felt  doubly  unhappy  on  such 
occasions,  as,  in  addition  to  the  fear  with  which 
such  a  suggestion  seemed  to  inspire  Matilda,  there 
was  an  unpleasant  consciouslbess  in  his  own  mind 
which  dreadfully  troubled  him.  At  such  times, 
strive  as  he  might,  he  could  not  help  thinking  upon 
the  promise  which  Herman  had  given  him,  and  he 
felt  that,  however  he  might  regret  the  death  of 
his  brother-in-law,  such  an  event  would  be  lessened 


36  CARL   WERNER. 

of  much  of  its  evil,  if  that  promise  could  be  kept. 
Such  thoughts  he  felt  were  criminal,  and  to  do 
Carl  all  justice,  we  should  add,  that  he  strove  man 
fully  to  resist  them.  But  he  could  not  resist  them, 
and  they  grew  upon  him.  After  a  little  while,  lie 
thought  of  nothing  else.  He^did  not  need  the 
gently-uttered  fears  of  Matilda,  who  continually 
spoke  of  her  absent  brother,  to  remind  him  of  his 
promise  and  of  his  mortality  ;  and  in  his 
dreams  the  image  of  that  well  known  friend, 
stretched  out  pale,  and  motionless,  in  the  embrace 
of  death,  came  but  too  frequently  to  his  mind,  not 
to  lose,  in  time,  many  of  its  terrors. 


IX. 


"One  pleasant  afternoon,  the  two,  Carl  and  Ma 
tilda,  rambled  forth,  according  to  their  usual  cus 
tom,  towards  the  ancient  abbey.  The  sun  was 
just  about  setting,  and  he  made  a  glorious  descent. 
His  rays  streamed  ^through  the  broken  walls  by 
which  they  walked,  and  they  paused  to  contem 
plate  the  picturesque  effect  of  their  scattered  beams, 
gliding  among  tombs,  in  which  the  dust  that 
once  was  life,  and  strength,  and  ambition,  could 
no  longer  feel  their  warmth.  While  they  looked, 


CARL   WERNER.  37 

a  cloud  suddenly  arose  in  the  heavens,  obscuring 
and  shutting  out  the  bright  glories  which  had  won 
their  gaze,  from  the  shattered  walls  which  they  had 
made  golden  but  a  moment  before.  The  sudden 
clouding  of  the  sky  brought  an  instinctive  gloom 
to  their  mutual  minds,  and  without  seeming  to 
notice  the  absence  of  any  connexion  between  the 
phenomenon  upon  which  they  looked,  and  the  ob 
ject  in  her  thoughts,  Matilda  quickly  remarked : 

"  ?  I  hope,  Carl,  that  nothing  is  the  matter  with 
Herman.' 

"  Strange  to  say,  the  thought  that  something 
was  the  matter  with  her  brother,  was  even  then 
the  busy  thought  in  the  mind  of  Carl.  He  replied 
after  a  moment's  pause — 

"  « Indeed,  Matilda,  I  hope  not.' 

"  A  slight  laugh  rose  from  the  ruins,  and  the 
conscious  soul  of  Carl  was  smitten  within  him. 

"  «  Had  he  been  sincere  in  the  utterance  of  that 
hope  ?'  was  the  question  which  he  asked  himself 
when  he  heard  the  laugh  ;  but  it  was  a  question 
which  he  dared  not  answer.  Matilda  did  not  seem 
to  have  heard  the  sound  which  had  touched  him 
so  deeply;  and  he  was  sufficiently  collected  to 
conceal  his  agitation  from  her.  But  while  they 
spoke  together,  though  but  a  few  moments  had 
elapsed,  the  cloud  had  veered  round,  and  now 

VOL.  i.  4 


38  CARL    WERNER. 

hung  in  the  sky  directly  before  them.  Somehow, 
this  appearance  affected  Carl  seriously.  He 
coupled  the  cloud  with  his  own  thoughts,  and  his 
imagination  grew  busy  in  its  contemplation.  It 
did  not  seem  a  common  cloud  to  his  eyes ;  and 
its  progress,  from  a  speck  in  the  pathway  of  the 
sun,  to  a  mantle,  in  whose  pitchy  bosom  the  dying 
but  glorious  orb  was  to  find  his  splendors  utterly 
subdued,  was  a  marvel  to  a  mind  so  subtle  as  his. 
His  fancies  grew  firm  and  strengthened  when  he 
saw  that  Matilda  observed  the  wonder  also. 

"  «  That  is  a  strange  looking  cloud,  Carl !'  she 
exclaimed  —  '  see  how  it  rolls  —  over  and  over  — 
onward  and  onward  —  and  yet  there  is  no  wind. 
It  is  coming  towards  us.' 

"  The  flight  of  the  cloud  seemed  to  have  in 
creased  in  velocity.  It  neared  them  rapidly,  and 
was  evidently  descending.  When  above  them,  it 
seemed  to  open  and  to  expand,  and  from  its  bosom 
Carl  felt  the  warm  drops  upon  his  face. 

"  '  It  rains  !'  he  said,  *  let  us  go  into  the  abbey.' 

"  '  I  feel  none,'  said  Matilda. 

"  *  Indeed  !  it  is  full  on  my  cheek  !' 

"  The  eyes  of  Matilda  turned  from  the  floating 
mass  that  had  now  passed  over  them,  but  when 
her  glance  met  the  face  of  her  husband,  she 
screamed  in  terror. 


CARL    WERNER.  39 

"  « Father  of  heaven  !'  she  exclaimed,  '  be  with 
us  !  Carl,  my  husband,  your  face  is  covered  with 
blood  !' 

"  '  Say  not  so  !'  he  cried,  *  what  can  it  mean  ?' 
He  wiped  his  face  with  his  handkerchief,  and  the 
stains  were  visible  to  his  own  eyes  ;  and  when  he 
looked  down  upon  his  garments,  they,  too, 
were  covered  with  the  same  sanguinary  color. 
The  wonder  was  greater  still,  when  they  looked  in 
vain  to  find  a  drop  upon  the  person  of  Matilda. 
Yet  her  arm  had  been  fast  locked  within  his,  and 
the  very  hand  which  had  sustained  her's  was  sprin 
kled  plentifully  with  the  stains. 


X. 


"  They  hurried  home  in  consternation.  The 
thought  of  Matilda  was  upon  her  brother ;  and  she 
regarded  the  events  of  the  evening  as  ominous 
of  his  fate.  But  why  did  the  blood  stains  fall  only 
upon  her  husband  ?  Why  were  her  garments  un 
touched  ?  This  was  a  mystery  to  her  ;  but  not  to 
Carl.  He  thought  he  could  explain  it,  but  he  for 
bore  to  speak.  He  dared  not.  His  thoughts 
and  feelings  were  not  what  they  should  have  been. 
He  was  guilty,  in  his  secret  soul,  of  improper  feel- 


40  CARL   WERNER. 

ings,  if  not  of  improper  wishes,  and  he  knew  it. 
Supper  was  soon  served,  and,  like  a  good  wife, 
regardful  only  of  her  husband,  Matilda  urged  Carl 
to  eat,  for  she  beheld  his  abstractedness.  He  ate 
without  knowing  that  he  did  so.  She,  however, 
could  eat  nothing,  and  as  soon  as  the  repast  was 
over,  she  retired  for  the  night.  But  Carl  felt  that 
there  was  no  sleep  for  him  ;  and  a  feverish  mood, 
for  which  he  could  not  account,  prompted  him  to 
sally  forth.  He  would  have  gone  to  his  wife's 
chamber — he  tried  to  do  so  —  for  he  knew  what 
were  her  apprehensions,  and  he  wished  to  soothe 
them  —  but  he  could  not.  Something  impelled 
his  footsteps  abroad  —  a  spirit  beyond  his  own 
drove  him  forward ;  and  with  a  desperate  mind 
he  rapidly  hastened  to  the  abbey,  as  if  there,  and 
there  only,  he  should  find  a  solution  of  the  mar 
vel  which  had  distressed  him.  His  heart  seemed 
to  grow  strong  in  proportion  as  his  thoughts  grew 
wilful ;  and  without  any  of  those  tremors  which 
had  ever  before  possessed  him  when  he  rambled, 
with  a  purely  mental  and  not  a  personal  feeling, 
among  the  ruins,  he  boldly  plunged  into  their  re 
cesses. 

"  The  night  was  a  clear,  but  not  a  bright  one. 
The  stars  were  not  numerous,  but  they  were  un 
clouded.  The  air  was  still,  and  was  only  now 


CARL    WERNER.  41 

and  then  apparent  in  a  slight  breathing,  as  it  came 
through  some  little  crevices  in  the  wall.  The  si 
lence  of  the  place  was  complete — was  its  solitude 
complete  also?  Carl  asked  of  himself  the  question, 
as  he  walked  beneath  the  massive  archway  of  the 
fabric — still  solid  and  strong,  though  broken  and 
impending ;  for,  the  masons  of  old,  wrought,  not 
less  to  make  their  works  live  than  to  live  them 
selves.  They  live,  like  all  good  workmen,  in 
their  labors.  The  roof,  broken  in  many  places, 
let  in  the  scattered  starlight,  and  sufficiently, 
though  imperfectly,  revealed  to  him  the  place. 
He  went  forward,  full  of  sad  and  truant  thoughts. 
He  took  his  seat  upon  one  end  of  a  dilapidated 
stone  which  had  often  sustained  him  before.  His 
elbows  rested  upon  his  knees,  and  his  hands  sup 
ported  his  head.  It  was  in  this  posture  that  he 
mused  with  feelings  which  sometimes  brought  him 
back  to  impulses  and  a  course  of  reflection  not 
unworthy  of  his  better  nature.  They  reproached 
him  with  the  heartlessness  of  his  curiosity,  as  if  it 
were  not  the  tendency  of  mind  always — great  mind, 
which  overlooks  the  time,  and  lives  for  God,  and 
for  the  species  —  to  disregard  nice  affections,  and 
the  tender  blossoms  which  decay. 

"  '  Herman,   Herman!'  he  exclaimed,  'I  have 
been   unworthy  of  thee.     Thou   hast  loved   me 
with  the  love  of  a  brother,  while  I  have  thought 
4* 


42  CARL   WERNER. 

of  thee  even  as  the  ancient  augur  of  the  victim, 
which  he  slaughtered  for  unholy  wisdom  !  T  have 
prayed  in  my  secret  soul  —  I  have  prayed  for  thy 
death  —  that  I  might  have  improper  knowledge.' 

"  Again  did  a  slight  laugh  come  to  his  ears. 
He  looked  up  with  a  shudder.  A  small  blue  light 
crawled  along  upon  the  opposite  wall,  like  some 
slimy  reptile,  and  while  Carl  watched  its  pro 
gress  with  solemn  interest,  the  laugh  was  repeated 
almost  beside  him.  He  started,  and  almost  at  the 
same  moment  he  felt  one  side  of  him  grow  chill. 
A  breath  of  ice  seemed  to  penetrate  him  from  the 
east.  He  turned  his  eyes  in  that  quarter,  and  the 
spectacle  that  then  met  his  gaze  paralyzed  every 
faculty  of  his  body.  The  form  of  Herman  Ott- 
fried  wsfs  there,  sitting  beside  him  on  the  other 
end  of  the  grave  stone.  He  could  not  speak — 
he  could  not  move.  His  eyes  were  riveted  upon 
the  spectre,  and  the  glare  which  was  sent  back 
from  those  of  the  unearthly  visitant,  was  that  of 
hell.  A  scornful  leer  was  in  it  —  a  giggling  hate 
—  a  venomous  but  laughing  malice. 

"  'Her — Her — Herman!'  Carl  tried  to  speak, 
but  a  monosyllable  was  all  that  he  could  utter. 

"  «  Ha,    ha,  ha  !'     The   vaulted    abbey   rang 
with  the  echoes  of  that  infernal  laugh. 

*'  *  Mercy  !     mercy  !'    screamed    the   unhappy 
Carl,  as  he  lifted  his  hands  and  strove  to  close  his 


CARL   WERNER.  43 

eyes  against  the  dreadful  presence.  But  the 
elbows  refused  to  bend  —  he  could  not  raise  them. 
His  knees  in  the  mean  time  gave  way,  and  he 
sank  senselessly  upon  the  damp  ground  of  the 
abbey. 


XL 


"When  he  unclosed  his  eyes,  which  he  did 
in  the  fullest  consciousness  of  his  situation,  and 
consequently  in  the  extremes!  terror,  he  was  re 
joiced  to  find  himself  alone.  The  grave  stone,  at 
the  foot  of  which  he  lay,  was  untenanted.  The 
abbey  was  silent,  and  though  he  dreaded,  at  every 
step  which  he  took  while  making  his  way  out,  to 
hear  the  dreadful  laugh,  and  to  behold  the  hellish 
visage,  he  yet  suffered  no  farther  interruption 
while  in  the  abbey.  When  he  had  left  it,  however, 
and  was  about  to  enter  the  main  street  of  the  vil 
lage,  he  was  encountered  by  a  drunken  man. 

"  '  Hallo,  friend  !'  exclaimed  the  bacchanal, 
«  whither  so  fast?  Stop  and  hear  a  song  —  stop 
and  be  merry.' 

"  And,  in  the  voice  of  one  satisfied  with  him 
self  and  all  the  world,  the  drinker  carolled  with 
tolerable  skill,  one  of  those  famous  dithyrambics 
in  which  the  German  muse  has  frequently  excel- 


44  CAUL    WERNER. 

led.  The  eye  of  the  unhappy  Carl  was  turned,  half 
in  hope,  and  half  in  despair,  upon  the  man.  He 
had  heard  of  the  soporific  effects  of  wine — of  its 
ability  to  drown  care,  and  produce  a  sweet  for- 
getfulness  of  his  sorrow,  and  he  felt  inclined  to  the 
temptation  ;  but  a  sudden  thought  of  Matilda  shot 
through  his  brain,  at  that  lucky  instant,  like  an 
arrow.  He  knew  not  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and 
was  ignorant  how  long  he  had  been  from  her. 
He  knew  that  he  had  swooned  away,  and  knew 
not  how  long  he  had  remained  in  his  stupor.  It 
might  be  near  daylight,  and  what,  —  if  such  were 
the  case,  —  what  must  be  her  fears?  Domestic 
love  came  to  his  succor,  and  he  rejected  the  over 
tures  of  the  bacchanalian,  who  nevertheless  con 
tinued  to  pursue  him.  He  followed  the  unhappy 
Carl  to  his  very  door,  now  persurding,  and  now 
striving  to  provoke  him  by  every  manner  of  taunt 
and  sarcasm,  to  partake  of  the  intoxicating  cup 
which  he  proffered.  But  the  sufferer  was  firm, 
though  more  than  once  it  came  to  his  thought  that 
wine  was  good  against  sorrow.  He  was  not  yet 
so  deficient,  however,  in  other  resources,  as  to  fly 
to  this  doubtful  succedaneum, 


CARL    WERNER.  45 


XII. 

"  It  was  not  so  late  as  Carl  had  fancied  it,  and 
his  wife  was  still  awake.  He  had  not  been  away 
much  longer  than  was  his  wont,  when  he  went 
forth  on  his  usual  evening  rambles  ;  and  though 
she  had  suffered  from  his  absence,  yet  it  was  not 
through  any  apprehensions  for  his  safety.  Still 
she  had  no  complaints,  and  the  pleasure  in  her 
eyes  when  he  did  return,  was,  probably,  one  of  the 
best  arguments  against  his  wandering  forth  again. 
She  was  still  melancholy  and  apprehensive,  and 
when  she  observed  the  anguish,  not  to  say  the 
agony,  which  was  apparent  in  every  feature  of  his 
face,  her  apprehensions  underwent  a  correspond 
ing  increase. 

"  '  What  is  the  matter,  Carl  ?  What  has  trou 
bled  you  ?'  she  demanded  of  him  in  agitated  ac 
cents. 

"  «  Nothing,  nothing !'  with  an  effort,  he  made 
out  to  reply. 

"  *  It  is  something — something  terrible,  dear 
est  husband  —  your  cheeks  are  haggard,  your 
eyes  are  wild — you  tremble  all  over.  Tell  me, 
tell  me,  my  husband,  what  is  it  that  troubles  you.' 


46  CARL   WERNER. 

"  c  Nothing,'  he  again  replied — '  return  to  your 
bed,'  (she  had  risen  when  she  beheld  his  face,) 
*  return  to  your  bed  and  heed  me  not.  I  will  be 
better  soon.' 

"He  quieted,  if  he  did  not  satisfy  her.  She 
returned  to  the  coucli  as  he  bade  her  ;  and  he 
prepared  to  follow  her.  But  there  was  one  duty 
which  he  omitted  that  night,  which,  from  his  child 
hood,  he  had  never  neglected  to  perform  before. 
He  did  not  pray.  He  strove  to  do  so,  but  his 
mind  could  not  be  brought  to  address  itself  in  sup 
plication.  He  forgot  the  words ;  and  others,  fo 
reign  to  his  object,  took  their  places.  He  gave  up 
the  effort  in  despair.  He  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  terrible  laugh,  and  the  demoniac  visage 
which  had  met  him  in  the  abbey.  All  the  next 
day  he  was  like  one  whose  senses  wandered.  His 
wife  strove  to  soothe  his  mood,  which  was  fitful  — 
and  to  attract  his  attention,  which  strayed  continu 
ally  ;  but  he  smiled  upon  her  kindly,  with  a  sickly 
smile,  and  gave  no  farther  acknowledgment.  As 
night  approached  he  grew  visibly  agitated,  and  as 
he  became  conscious  that  his  efforts  at  conceal 
ment  were  unavailing,  he  sought  his  chamber,  to 
hide  in  its  dimness  what  he  might  not  otherwise 
conceal.  But  his  agony  seemed  to  increase  with  his 
solitude.  Dreadful  images  were  about  him  in  his 


CARL    WERNER.  47 

chamber,  and  a  chuckle,  like  that  he  had  heard  in 
the  abbey,  was  uttered,  at  intervals,  even  over  his 
shoulder.  He  descended  to  the  apartment  in 
which  he  had  left  Matilda,  preferring  that  she 
should  see  the  agony  that  he  could  not  endure 
alone.  But  her  presence  gave  him  no  consola 
tion,  and  her  solicitude  became  an  annoyance. 

"  *  Trouble  me  no  more  !'  he  exclaimed,  in  tones 
which  she  had  never  heard  from  his  lips  before, 
replying  to  one  of  her  fond  appeals  to  know  the 
cause  of  his  sufferings.  '  Trouble  me  no  more  — 
it  is  nothing — nothing  which  I  may  tell  you.' 

"  She  turned  from  him  in  sorrow  not  less  deep, 
though  less  acute  than  his,  and  the  tears  filled 
her  eyes.  His  heart  reproached  him  as  he  beheld 
her  action,  and  readily  conceived  her  pain  ;  but 
there  was  a  wilful  impulse  in  his  bosom,  which  re 
fused  to  permit  of  his  making  the  usual  atone 
ment.  Sullen  and  sad,  he  glowered  about  the 
apartment  'till  night  came  on,  and  supper  was  an 
nounced,  when  Matilda  saw  that  his  agitation  was 
visibly  increasing.  With  the  meek  and  blessing 
spirit  of  an  angel,  forgetting  the  harsh  rebuff 
which  he  had  given  her,  she  approached  him  — 
threw  her  fond  arms  about  his  neck,  and  implored 
him  to  smile  again  upon  her.  He  tried  to  do  so 
but  the  effort  produced  only  a  ghastly  grin,  no 


48  CARL     WERNER. 

less  shocking  to  her  eyes  than  the  effort  had  been 
irksome  to  his  mind.  He  went  to  the  supper  ta 
ble,  and,  unobserved  by  him,  her  glance  watched 
him  while  he  strove  to  eat.  He  left  the  table  in 
horror,  for  the  face  of  Herman  stared  at  him  from 
the  plate.  There  was  no  hope  of  escape  from  the 
pursuing  fiend,  and  the  unhappy  Carl  rushed  out 
of  the  house.  Where  should  he  go  ? 

"  *  To  the  abbey  !  to  the  abbey  !  I  will  speak 
—  I  will  demand  its  meaning.  I  will  know  and 
hear  all.  If  it  be  Herman,  in  truth  —  my  brother 
and  my  friend  — ' 

«  'Ha!   ha!  ha!' 

"  The  infernal  laugh  was  at  his  elbow.  He 
turned  in  desperation  to  behold — not  the  gor- 
gon  stare  which  had  so  terrified  him  in  the  abbey, 
but  a  face  rather  good  natured  than  otherwise  — 
the  face  of  the  bacchanalian  who  had  encountered 
him  on  the  preceding  night.  A  mischievous  grin 
was  upon  the  features  of  the  stranger,  whose  broad 
mouth  and  little  twinkling  eyes,  with  the  fat,  hang 
ing  cheek,  and  the  red  and  pimpled  nose,  seemed 
the  very  personification  of  fun  and  frolic.  Not  a  fea 
ture  in  his  face  appeared  of  demoniac  origin.  The 
subtle  malignity  of  the  satanic  attributes  were  en 
tirely  wanting,  and  in  place  of  them,  reckless  mirth, 
indifferent  to  all  matters  but  good  cheer,  was  the 


CARL    WERNER.  49 

prevailing  expression.  But  the  laugh  !  That, 
certainly,  had  been  very  like  the  laugh  he  had 
heard  in  the  abbey.  No  two  sounds  could  have 
seemed  more  alike  to  the  ears  of  Carl.  A  new 
thought  entered  his  mind  with  this  conviction. 
This  drunken  fellow  might  have  been  the  propri 
etor  of  the  former  laugh,  as  he  certainly  was  of 
that  which  he  had  just  heard.  To  him  might  be 
ascribed  the  design  to  frighten  himself  and  Her 
man.  When  he  looked  into  the  cunning,  merry, 
blubber-face  of  the  reveller,  conjecture  became 
conviction.  « It  must  be  so  !'  said  Carl,  half  aloud. 

"  '  To  be  sure  it  must,'  exclaimed  the  other. 
*  We  will  have  a  glass  together  now,  though  you 
did  refuse  to  be  a  good  fellow  last  night.  Come. 
Here's  old  Dietrich  hard  by.  I  can  answer  for 
his  liquors,  though  I  cannot  for  his  conscience.  I 
believe  in  the  one,  and  —  damn  the  other.  Come, 
my  friend,  let's  try  him.' 

"  Carl  was  half  disposed  to  be  civil  with  the 
stranger.  The  notion  which  had  suddenly  pos 
sessed  him  that  he  and  the  ghost  of  the  abbey  were 
one  and  the  same  person,  brought  a  singular  relief 
to  his  mind  ;  and  he  was  half  persuaded  to  forgive 
him  the  impertinence  of  the  fright  which  he  had 
received,  in  consideration  of  the  solution  of  the 
mystery  which  the  conjecture  brought.  The 

VOL.  i.  5 


50  CARL    WERNER. 

stranger  pressed  him,  expatiating-  upon  the  sweets 
of  wine,  and  the  luxury  of  good  company. 

"  «  Wine,'  says  he — 'wine,  CarJ ' 

"  *  How  the  devil  does  he  know  my  name !' 
thought  Carl  to  himself,  but  he  did  not  say  it. 

"  *  Damn  my  instinct,'  said  the  other — *  I  find 
it  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  not  to  know, 
what,  indeed,  it  is  not  necessary  that  I  should 
know.' 

"  *  What  do  you  mean  ?'  said  Carl. 

"  *  Oh,  nothing  —  I  was  only  regretting  that 
my  passion  for  wine — I  had  almost  thought  it  an 
instinct — should  sometimes  make  me  "indifferent 
to  the  sort  of  company  I  fall  in  with.  Here,  I've 
been  on  the  eve  of  eulogizing  the  rich  Hochhei- 
mer  to  you,  who  are  a  judge,  doubtless,  of  the 
noble  beverage,  simply  because,  in  my  intercourse 
with  mankind,  I  meet  hourly  with  so  many  to 
whom  the  eulogy  is  a  sort  of  key  to  their  tastes, 
that  it  is  now  almost  habitual  with  me  to  dwell 
upon  it.  To  you,  however,  any  idle  talk  upon 
the  merits  and  effects  of  good  wine  would  be  only 
an  impertinence.' 

"  ' 1  am  no  judge  —  I  drink  little,'  said  Carl, 
to  whom  the  seduction  of  appearing  more  than  he 
was,  or  of  knowing  more  than  he  did,  had  always 
been  a  very  small  one. 


CARL    WERNER  51 

"  '  You  belie  yourself,'  said  the  stranger  —  *I 
know  that  you  are  a  judge  —  I  see  it  in  your  face. 
Come  with  me  —  you  shall  give  me  your  opinion 
of  the  wine  of  Dietrich.' 

"  *  Nay,  you  must  excuse  me,'  said  Carl. 

"  '  Can't  —  never  excuse  a  man  from  his  wine,1 
said  the  other,  bluntly.  *  Excuse  a  milk-sop,  of 
course  —  but  never  a  man.'  And  as  he  finished 
a  sarcasm  which  has  led  thousands  of  goodly  young 
men  to  their  ruin,  he  familiarly  took  the  arm  of 
Carl  to  lead  him  forward  to  the  tavern.  But  Carl 
was  not  vain  of  being  esteemed  manly  in  this  re 
spect.  His  philosophy  was  that  of  an  English 
poet,  whom  he  never  read : 

'  \Vho  drinks  more  wine  than  others  can, 
I  count  a  hogshead,  not  a  man  — ' 

and  he  gently,  but  firmly  refused. 

"  *  Why,  man,'  said  the  other,  <Am  I  then 
mistaken  in  you.  I  thought  you  a  good  fellow, 
who  loved  good  company,  good  wine,  and  a  good 
story  — ' 

"  'Good  story!'  exclaimed  Carl,  touched  in 
the  right  place. 

"  *  Ay,  a  good  story — a  tale  of  the  mountains 

—  of  the  miners,  and  the  red  demons  of  the  mines 

—  the  gnomes  and  the  salamanders.' 


52  CARL    WERNER. 

"  *  Have  you,  indeed,  such  stories  ?'  inquired 
Carl,  now  rather  curious. 

"  '  Ay,  that  have  I,  and,  nearer  home,  of  the 
old  abbey  here.  I  can  tell  you  a  ghost  story  of 
those  ruins,  that  '11  make  every  hair  of  your  head 
stand  on  end.' 

'*  Carl  hesitated  and  lingered,  and  his  compa 
nion  laughed  at  his  hesitation.  That  laugh  chilled 
him  —  it  reminded  him  of  what  he  had  been  willing 
to  forget.  It  reminded  him  of  the  face  of  Her 
man —  the  ghastly  grin  upon  his  lips,  and  the 
dreadful  laugh  —  so  like  to  that  of  the  stranger, 
which  he  had  then  heard.  He  broke  away  from 
the  arm  which  held  him. 

"  '  Not  now,'  said  he,  *  you  must  excuse  me. 
I  have  business  to  attend  to.'  And  with  these 
words,  amid  the  curses  and  the  derision  of  his  com 
panion,  he  hurried  forward  to  the  abbey. 


XIII. 

"  A  spell,  whose  power  seemed  to  be  irresistible, 
prompted  him  in  the  direction  which  he  took.  A 
will,  superior  to  his  own,  yet  compassing  and  con 
trolling  it  entirely,  drove  him  onward  to  the  ab 
bey.  What  proper  motive  had  he  there  ?  None. 


CARL    WERNER.  53 

His  duties  were  all  elsewhere  —  with  his  wife  — 
in  his  own  home.  What  could  he  gain  to  see 
once  more  the  dreadful  spectre  which  had  affright 
ed  him  ?  An  unholy  curiosity  stimulated  the  an 
swer  to  this  question.  Knowledge  —  Knowledge. 
To  know  that  which  is  forbidden  —  to  win  the  se 
crets  of  two  worlds  —  was  the  hope  of  Carl,  as  it 
has  been  the  unwise  hope  of  thousands.  He  did 
not  remember,  while  he  indulged  this  vain  desire, 
that  the  *  tree  of  knowledge,  is  not  that  of  life  ;' 
still  less  can  it  be  said  to  be  that  of  happiness. 
Thought  is  not  often  happiness;  and  where  thought 
takes  the  wings  of  the  imagination,  and  strives 
ever  after  the  ideal,  it  is  too  apt  to  be  torture  and 
strife,  as  it  must  finally  be  death.  Death,  indeed 
—  death  and  time  are  the  grand  illuminators.  To 
wait  is  to  be  wise.  Alas!  for  Carl  —  he  had  not 
only  to  wait  but  to  endure. 

"  '  I  must  pluck  up  courage  !'  he  mentally  ex 
claimed.  *  I  demanded  to  see  him  ;  I  must  not 
shrink  from  the  encounter.  Let  him  speak  to  me  — 
let  him  say  he  is  happy —  and  I  will  ask  no  more.* 

"  What  right  had  he  to  ask  so  much  f  Were 
it  his  right,  would  it  not  be  revealed  ?  Would  the 
just  God  withhold  from  him  a  right?  He  did  not 
ask  himself  these  questions,  for  Carl,  like  all  of 
his  species,  was  but  too  apt  to  contemplate,  through 
5* 


54  CARL    WERNER. 

the  medium  of  a  shallow  vanity,  the  deity  in  his 
own  heart,  as  if  the  dwelling-place  of  fears  and 
feebleness,  of  vain  caprices  and  false-founded  pas 
sions,  could  ever  be  the  home  of  divinity. 

"He  entered  the  abbey  walls  —  he  trod  among 
the  crumbling  ruins,  but  his  heart  shook  within 
him.  Again  he  sat  upon  the  tomb-stone — again 
did  the  sudden  and  sinuous  light  crawl  before  him 
upon  the  walls.  He  felt  the  chill  enter  and  curdle 
the  blood  within  his  bosom,  and  he  knew  that  the 
spectre  was  sitting  at  his  side.  He  dared  not  look 
round  upon  him.  He  almost  sank  upon  the 
ground;  but  the  resolve  of  his  mind  sustained  him, 
and  he  tried  to  compose  himself. 

"  *  Why  should  I  fear  ?'  he  said  in  his  thoughts. 
'If  it  be  Herman,  he  will  not  harm  me — if  it  be 
not  Herman,  what  other  has  claim  upon  me  !' 

"As  if  the  spectre  had  seen  his  heart,  and  in 
this  manner  commented  upon  its  fears  and  weak 
ness,  the  dreadful  laugh  which  had  so  shocked  him 
before,  was  again  repeated.  The  blood  ran  cold 
in  the  bosom  of  the  mortal,  but  his  firmness  had 
not  departed.  The  resolve  was  still  in  his  mind, 
and  after  a  brief  pause,  in.  which  he  struggled  suc 
cessfully  with  his  terrors,  he  turned  his  eye  boldly 
to  behold  the  spectre.  The  same  dreadful  presence 
met  his  glance  as  on  the  preceding  night.  But  the 


CARL  WERNER.  55 

novelty  had  passed  away,  and  with  it  some  of  the 
terrors.  He  felt  that  he  could  now  survey  it,  dis 
tinctly,  resolutely,  if  not  calmly.  He  did  survey 
it  —  and  what  a  spectacle  !  The  face  was  that  of 
his  friend,  that  of  Herman  Ottfried,  indeed  ;  but, 
oh  !  how  different.  It  was  the  face  of  his  brother 
and  his  friend,  but  in  place  of  the  gentleness  and 
good  nature  that  made  its  prevailing  expression 
heretofore,  the  features  were  all  hell-stamped  — the 
skin  was  all  hell-dyed  and  darkened.  Carl  nearly 
fainted  —  his  heart  seemed  to  wither  within  him  as 
he  gazed.  But  he  continued  to  gaze.  His  resolve, 
built  upon  high,  but  erring,  moral  purpose — was 
not  now  to  be  shaken.  Nor,  indeed,  could  he  do 
otherwise  than  gaze.  The  eyes  of  the  spectre, 
like  those  of  the  fabled  basilisk,  rivetted  his  own. 
The  glare  which  shot  from  them,  like  a  yellow  va 
por,  seemed  to  exercise  upon  him  the  power  of  a 
spell.  He  gazed  till  he  was  infatuated;  yet  he 
writhed  all  the  while  beneath  the  scornful  maligni 
ty  of  the  spectre's  glance. 

"  '  What  would  you  with  me  ?'  he  screamed, 
rat'lier  than  spoke.  He  could  easier  scream  than 
speak  ;  and  the  words  were  scarcely  intelligible  to 
his  own  ears.  He  was  once  more  answered  by 
that  infernal  laugh.  He  shivered  as  he  heard  it, 
but  it  did  not  increase  his  terrors.  It  rather  made 
him  indignant. 


56  CARL    WERNER. 

"  *  Who  are  you  ?'  he  cried,  in  tones  more  tem 
perate,  and  with  a  spirit  even  more  resolved  than 
before.  '  Who  are  you  ?  —  what  are  you  ?  I 
know  you  not/ 

"  'Herman  —  thy  friend  —  he  for  whose  death 
thou  pray  Met,  that  thou  might 'st  possess  his 
secret.  Would'st  thou  not  hear  it  ?' 

"  Such  was  the  terrifying  response  of  the  spec 
tre  whom  he  had  summoned. 

"  «  Thou  liest !'  cried  Carl,  boldly.  «  I  uttered 
no  such  prayer.' 

"  '  Thou  did'st,'  was  the  prompt  reply,  '  in  thy 
heart  thou  did'st,  and  thy  prayer  is  granted. 
Herman  Ottfried  is  no  more  —  he  is  beside  thee/ 

"  'I  believe  thee  not!'  was  the  courageous  re 
ply.  '  My  friend  still  lives ;  and  if  he  did  not,  I 
would  not  believe  that  such  as  thou  seemest,  and 
art,  should  be  his  representative.  He  is  good,  and 
thou  — ' 

"  *  Art  damned  !  —  thou  would'st  say  !'  and  the 
spectre  concluded  his  sentence  —  'And  thou  say'st 
truly,  Carl  Werner.  I  am  as  thou  say'st.  Yet, 
look  once  more  upon  these  features,  and,  blasted 
and  blackened  as  they  appear  to  thee,  say  if  they 
are  not  those  of  him  who  was  thy  friend — of  him 
who  was  Herman  Ottfried.7 

"  'I  believe  thee  not!'  cried  Carl,  trembling 
all  over. 


CARL    WERNER.  57 

"  *  Thou  shall — thou  dost  believe  me,  Carl 
Werner,'  replied  the  spectre.  '  Thou  know'st 
that  I  am  he.  Did  I  not  pledge  myself  to  meet 
thee  —  to  tell  thee  all  —  to  give  thee  intelligence 
—  to  ease  thy  curiosity  ?  I  am  come.  I  am  ready. 
Art  thou  willing  —  art  thou  prepared  to  hear?' 

"  '  Not  from  thee  —  not  from  thee  !'  cried  Carl, 
in  agony.  *  Away  !  leave  me — trouble  me  not 
with  thy  falsehoods.  My  friend  is  living  —  Her 
man  Ottfried,  I  know,  still  lives  ;  and  if  he  did  not, 
thou  never  couldst  have  been  the  spirit  which  filled 
his  frame,  and  gave  impulse  to  his  actions.  He 
had  no  malice  such  as  glares  from  thine  eyes  —  he 
had  no  foul  passions  such  as  hang  about  thy  lips.' 

"  «  Thou  reasonest  like  a  child,  Carl  Werner. 
Hear  me  and  believe.  The  first  truth  is  death  — 
the  second  judgment.  Mortality  is  a  state  of 
dreams  and  shows  —  presentments  which  impose 
only  on  mortal  senses.  We  throw  oft' all  disguises 
for  the  first  time,  when  we  arrive  at  the  first  truth, 
which  we  never  know  until  death.  We  acquire 
all  truth  when  we  reach  the  higher  form  of  judg 
ment.  In  death,  we  know  for  the  first  time  what 
we  are  and  have  been — in  judgment,  we  know 
what  we  shall  be.' 

"  '  Then  thou  canst  tell  me  nothing,'  said  Carl, 
fearlessly  — yet  trembling  all  the  while. 


58  CARL    WERNER. 

"  *  Yes  —  I  can  tell  thee  what  I  am  !'  exclaimed 
the  spectre  in  reply  ;  but  it  needed  no  words  to 
unfold  that  which  was  but  too  clearly  discernible  in 
the  blasted  and  blasting  expression  of  his  counte 
nance  as  he  thus  replied.  Carl  saw  this  ex 
pression,  and  the  shudder  that  shook  his  frame 
sufficiently  apprized  the  spectre  that  it  was  unne 
cessary  for  him  to  relate  that  which  the  quick  ima 
gination  of  Carl  so  readily  conceived.  He  grin 
ned  fearfully  as  he  witnessed  the  tremblings  of  his 
mortal  companion,  and  the  malicious  and  hateful 
expression  re-aroused  the  courage  of  the  youth. 

"  '  Yet,  though  I  cannot  but  see  that  thou  art 
one  of  the  damned  and  blasted  of  heaven  —  one  of 
the  thrice  blasted  perchance .' 

"  *  Thou  art  right !'  exclaimed  the  spectre,  while 
lurid  fires  of  a  hellish  agony  seemed  to  kindle  in, 
and  to  dart  forth  from  his  eye  —  *  thou  art  right ;  I 
am  indeed,  one  of  the  thrice  —  ay,  one  of  the  sev 
enty  times  seventy  times  damned  of  the  Eternal  ; 
and  I  defy  him  amid  all  his  fires.' 

"  He  paused  as  he  spoke  these  words,  and  his 
clenched  hands  were  lifted  in  air,  and  thrust  up 
wards,  as  if  he  would  do  battle  even  at  that  mo 
ment  with  the  deity.  Carl  shuddered  and  shrunk 
from  the  fearful  presence  ;  but  his  soul  grew 


CARL    WERNER.  59 

strengthened  within  him  in  due  proportion  to  the 
revoltings  which  he  felt  at  such  foul  blasphemy. 

"  I  believe  thee !'  he  exclaimed,  and  his  own 
clasped  hands  were  raised  in  prayer  while  he  con 
tinued —  ;I  believe  thee;  but  I  believe  not  that 
thou  art  Herman  Ottfried  —  it  is  impossible — I 
believe  not  that  he  is  dead.' 

"  *  Thou  shalt  have  confirmation  to-morrow. 
His  blood  was  upon  thee  yesterday  —  his  shadow 
is  before  thee  now.  Dost  ihon  no*  believe  mo — 
wilt  not  thon  hem  some  of  the  secrets  which  thou 
didat  once  so  desire  to  know.  Where  is  thy  curi 
osity —  where  is  thy  thirst,  Carl,  after  knowledge  ? 
Has  thy  marriage  changed  thy  nature,  and  art 
thou  willing  to  be  the  mere  cur  of  the  household, 
and  forego  that  noble  ambition  which  made  thee 
seek  after  wisdom,  as  if  it  were  life  —  as  if  it 
were  more  than  life  to  thee  —  as  if  it  were  happi 
ness  ?  Is  it  happiness  to  thee  no  longer  ?  Is  thy 
sense  dulled  for  its  enjoyment  ?  Go  to,  Carl,  I 
had  not  thought  this  of  thee.  Go  to  thy  wife  — 
get  from  her  the  needle  and  the  net-work,  and  find 
in  her  example  thy  fitting  employment.  Thou 
hast  not  the  soul  for  my  secret  -j/fhou  wouldst  fear 
to  hear  it.' 

"  'Fiend  —  foul   fiend,  and  bitter  devil!'  cried 
the  fierce  Carl,  provoked  by  the  taunting  of  the 


60  CARL   WERNER. 


spectre  beside  him  -—  *  I  fear  tK5e  not,  though  1 
would  not  have  thy  secret.  I  hold  thce  to  be  a 
cheat,  and  thou  but  slanderest  the  noble  spirit  of 
my  friend.  Have  at  thy  throat,  monster,  in  the 
name  of  heaven  and  its  blessed  ministers.  Have 
at  thy  throat  !  and  let  the  great  God  of  the  hea 
vens  and  the  earth  determine  between  us.' 

"  *  Ha,  ha,  ha  !'  was  the  only  response  of  the 
spectre  as  Carl  uttered  these  words.  The  repli 
cation  of  the  cvvunhling  walls  to  the  infernal  laugh 
was  tremendous  5  but  it  did  noi  shake  the  despe 
rate  courage  of  Carl  Werner.  He  sprang  upon 
his  glowering  and  grinning  enemy,  with  out 
stretched  arms  and  fingers,  and  he  aimed  to  clutch 
the  fearful  image-  —  not  a  whit  alarmed  at  the  in 
creasing  fiendishness  of  its  aspect  —  by  the  throat; 
but  the  object  melted  in  his  embrace,  at  the  mo 
ment  when  it  seemed  most  secure.  His  arms 
grasped  his  own  body  ;  and,  stunned  with  con 
fused  thoughts  and  defeated  passion,  the  unhappy 
Carl  gazed  around  him  in  a  stupor,  which  was 
not  at  all  diminished  as  he  found  himself  alone. 


XIV. 

"  To  a  certain  extent,  this  stupor  brought  with  it 
a  desirable  insensibility.     He  trembled  no  longer. 


CARL    WERNER.  61 

He  was  almost  reckless.  A  reaction  in  his  mind 
had  taken  place,  and  from  having  been  one  whom 
every  thing  before,  however  slight,  could  startle, 
he  was  now  one  whom  nothing  could  affect  or 
move.  He  rushed  through  the  abbey.  He  thrust 
his  fearless  head  into  all  its  recesses — into  tombs 
and  niches,  cells,  and  ruinous  and  long  untrodden 
apartments,  with  most  admirable  indiscretion.  He 
summoned  his  tormentor  from  the  places  in  which 
he  had  hidden  himself,  and  defied  the  presence 
which  he  invoked.  But  all  was  silent ;  and,  ex 
hausted  with  fatigue,  and  chafed  with  his  disap 
pointment,  Carl  at  length  departed  from  the  abbey 
in  hopeless  despondency.  The  next  day,  even  as 
the  spectre  had  predicted,  he  received  the  fatal  in 
telligence  of  the  death  of  Herman.  This  news 
was  but  too  confirmatory  of  what  he  had  seen  and 
felt.  It  gave  life  and  body  to  his  fears.  The 
grief  of  Matilda  was  great,  but  it  would  be  vain 
to  undertake  to  describe  that  of  her  husband.  To 
her,  his  agony  —  dearly,  as  she  well  knew,  he  loved 
her  brother  —  seemed  strange  and  unaccountable. 
She  little  dreamed  of  the  nightly  revelations  which 
were  made  to  his  senses.  With  a  praiseworthy 
sense  of  propriety  and  a  manly  tenderness,  he  had 
carefully  withheld  from  her,  though  still  longing 
i.  6 


62  CARL   WERNER. 

to  reveal,  the  fearful  secret  which  he  possessed. 
But  how  could  he  say  to  her  that  he  had  seen  her 
brother,  or  seen  him  as  he  was  —  a  thing  upon 
whom  the  curse  of  God  had  fallen,  and  who  had 
been  delivered  over  by  his  judgment  to  the  awful 
ministers  of  eternal  wrath.  He  felt  that  he  must 
keep  his  secret,  and  bear  with  iis  horrible  burden 
as  best  he  might.  But,  as  evening  drew  nigh,  the 
horrors  of  his  heart  grew  less  and  less  supporta 
ble.  He  felt  that  he  must  again  perform  his  vigil. 
He  must  again  repair  to  the  place  of  his  trial  and 
bis  torture  ;  and  this,  by  a  secret  conviction  of  his 
mind,  he  felt  must  be  done,  until  he  had  courage 
to  hear,  and  was  willing  to  believe,  all  th  orrible 
intelligence  which  the  spectre  m  ght  think  proper 
to  convey.  He  had  bound  himself  solemnly  to 
the  meeting,  and  he  could  not  shrink  from  the 
terms  of  his  pie  ge.  Yet,  where  and  when  was  it 
to  end  ?  This  was  the  dreadful  question  which  his 
soul  answered  in  utter  hopeles  ness. 

"  *  In  my  death.  Yet  it  will  end  soon,  for  I 
cannot  stand  this  strife  much  longer.' 

"  Such  were  his  thoughts  and  words  ;  and  their 
truth  would  readily  be  believed  by  those  who  wrere 
conscious  of  the  sudden  and  singular  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  his  person.  All  the  villagers 
remarked  it.  He  was  haggard  and  listless-^- he 


CARL    WERNER.  63 

saw  and  heeded  nobody  —  he  moved  through  the 
streets  like  a  ghost,  and  Matilda  —  the  beloved 
wife  of  his  affections — no  longer  filled  his  heart, 
and  commanded  the  devotion  of  his  eye.  She 
strove  to  find  out  the  secret  of  his  sorrows,  and  to 
soothe  them.  But  vainly  would  the  physician  seek 
to  heal,  while  he  remains  ignorant  of  the  cause  of 
the  distemper.  We  must  lay  bare  the  wound  to 
extract  the  poison;  and  in  the  purity  of  her  soul 
she  did  not  even  imagine  the  horrible  nature  of 
that  secret  which  was  preying  upon  his.  Her  ef 
forts  were  in  vain.  Night  came  on,  and  though 
she  strove  to  keep  him  at  home,  the  spell  was  too 
powerful  to  permit  her  to  succeed. 

"  <  Where  is  it  you  go,  dearest  Carl  ?  Why, 
night  after  night,  will  you  go  forth  in  so  much  sor 
row,  and  with  features  so  wild,  so  full  of  apprehen 
sion  ;  and  when  you  return  —  so  full  of  horror  — 
so  haggard  —  so  dreadful  ?  Tell  me,  dear  hus 
band,  whither  it  is  you  go,  and  why  it  is  you  suf 
fer  in  this  manner.' 

"  '  Nay,  do  not  heed  me,  dearest,'  said  the  un 
happy  man,  with  a  gentleness  of  manner  which 
made  his  sorrows  only  the  more  touching — *do  not 
trouble  yourself  about  me.  I  have  busy  and  vex 
ing  thoughts,  and  shall  not  look  well  until  they  are 


64  CARL   WERNER. 

digested  into  form.  When  I  resolve  them,  then 
will  I  remain  with  you,  and  be  at  peace.' 

"  'What  thoughts  are  they?'  she  demanded; 
but  he  smiled,  and  answered  her  evasively. 

"  *  Ask  me  not  —  not  now,'  he  replied,  and  re 
sisting  her  solicitations  to  be  allowed  to  go  forth 
with  him,  he  rushed  out  of  the  house.  She  fol 
lowed  him  to  the  door,  and  looked  after  him  in  the 
street ;  and  her  own  apprehensions  were  greatly 
increased  as  she  beheld  the  erratic  impulse  of  his 
movement,  and  the  feebleness  of  his  step  —  the  one 
betokening  the  disorder  of  his  mind,  the  other  the 
debility  of  his  body.  While  she  looked  and  trem 
bled,  with  the  big  tear  gathering  slowly  in  her  eye 
and  stealing  silently  to  her  cheek,  the  accents  of  a 
mild  but  strange  voice  met  her  ears  at  a  small  dis 
tance,  and,  turning,  she  beheld  an  old  man  stand 
ing  before  her.  He  was  a  stranger  to  her,  and 
evidently  a  stranger  in  the  place,  since  his  air  and 
costume  were  very  different  from  any  that  she  had 
ever  before  seen.  His  beard  was  long  and  white 
like  silver,  and  hung  down  neatly  smooth  and 
clean  upon  his  bosom  ;  his  hair,  equally  long,,  and 
not  less  white,  streamed  with  similar  smoothness 
down  his  back  and  shoulders.  It  was  evident  that 
he  was  a  person  of  very  great  age,  yet  his  skin 
was  clear,  of  a  pure  white  and  red,  and  unmarked 


CARL    WERNER.  65 

by  a  single  wrinkle.  His  mouth  was  small,  and 
wore  a  sweet  expression,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of 
benevolence.  He  carried  a  little  staff,  and  a  bundle 
which  probably  contained  a  single  change  of  rai 
ment —  it  certainly  could  hot  have  held  more ;  and 
he  seemed  like  some  venerable  traveller,  who  had 
an  unconquerable  desire  for  travel,  and  had  learned 
to  narrow  his  wants  to  the  smallest  possible  limits, 
consistent  with  the  superior  claims  of  an  intellec 
tual  nature. 

"  l  Daughter,'  he  said,  «  Peace  be  with  you. 
Can  you  give  me  shelter  and  food  for  the  night  ? 
I  am  a  stranger,  and  would  abide  with  you.' 

"  The  heart  of  Matilda,  like  that  of  Carl,  was 
open  as  day,  and  the  stranger  most  probably  had 
seen  in  her  countenance  that  he  would  not  be  re 
fused  ;  for,  even  as  he  spoke,  he  prepared  to  enter. 
He  was  not  deceived  in  the  person  he  addressed. 
With  a  sweet  voice,  full  of  respect  —  for  his  vener 
able  white  hairs  had  impressed  Matilda  with  a 
proper  and  gentle  awe  —  she  bade  him  welcome, 
and  having  closed  the  door — after  giving  a  long 
lingering  look  to  the  form  of  her  husband,  who 
was  rapidly  passing  from  her  sight — she  led  the 
way  for  her  aged  guest,  into  an  inner  apartment. 
There  she  spread  before  him  the  simple  repast 

from  which  the  unhappy  Carl  had  fled.     The  old 
6* 


66  CARL    WERNER. 

man  blessed  the  bread  ere  he  broke  It,  and  blessed 
the  giver.  He  then  ate  heartily,  and  at  intervals 
conversed  with  Matilda,  who  sat  with  him  at  the 
table,  though  she  ate  nothing.  Her  heart  was  too 
full  of  doubt  and  sorrow  to  suffer  her  to  eat,  and 
while  her  guest  spoke,  the  tears  gathered  unbid 
den,  and  without  her  consciousness,  to  her  eyes.  He 
saw  them. 

"  '  Daughter,  you  weep — you  are  unhappy. 
Why  is  it — what  is  your  sorrow.' 

"  *  Alas !  father,  are  we  not  born  to  sorrows. 
Is  there  one  who  escapes  ?' 

"'True,  my  child  —  sorrow  is  human,  and  to 
grieve  is  the  attribute  *of  man,  and  perhaps  his 
blessing.  They  are  blest  who  can  weep.  God 
loveth  those  whom  he  chasteneth  ;  for  it  is  through 
trial  only  that  we  gain  virtue,  and  through  virtue 
only  that  we  gain  heaven.  The  untried  are  the 
unblessed,  for  then  is  the  work  harder  for  them, 
and  the  prospect  of  virtue  more  remote.  Such, 
my  daughter,  is  not  your  case.  The  fire  even 
now  is  purifying  you,  and  if  you  grieve,  you  do  not 
murmur.  Sorrow,  like  a  goodly  medicine  that  is 
to  work  for  our  healing,  must  be  submitted  to 
without  murmuring.  Whence  come  your  sorrows, 
my  daughter — let  me  know  them.  I  hare  travel 
led  much  among  men,  and  I  know  many  of  the 


CARL    WERNER.  67 

arts  of  healing.  I  have  some  skill  which  I  may 
boast,  in  curing  those  hurts  of  the  mind  which 
come  from  our  indiscretions,  and  are  to  be  healed 
by  our  humility.  Let  me  know  what  grieves  you, 
and  hear  to  my  counsel." 

"  '  I  grieve  not  for  myself,  my  father,  so  much 
as  for  one  that  I  love— my  husband.' 

"  'You  are  married  then  ?' 

"  '  I  am,  and  to  one  of  the  best  of  men ;  but  he 
is  thoughtful  even  to  sadness,  and  I  fear  that  his 
thoughts  are  sometimes  too  vexing  for  his  mind, 
which  they  very  much  disorder.  Something 
troubles  him  very  greatly  even  now,  and  before 
you  came  he  went  forth  !n  deep  anxiety,  which  it 
was  painful  to  me  to  behold.  He  will  be  away 
until  near  midnight,  or  even  after ;  and  when  he 
returns,  it  will  seem  that  some  dreadful  strife  hath 
shaken  him  —  his  face  will  be  pale  as  if  with  sud 
den  fright — his  eyes  wild,  staring,  almost  starting 
from  their  sockets,  and  his  whole  appearance  that 
of  a  man  almost  distraught.' 

"  '  And  how  long  hath  he  been  troubled  in  this 
wise,  my  daughter?'  demanded  the  aged  stranger. 

"  '  But  a  few  days,'  Matilda  readily  replied  ;  for 
there  was  something  so  encouraging  in  the  appear 
ance  of  the  old  man,  that,  although  a  woman 
rather  disposed  to  reserve  in  her  manners,  she  felt 


68  CARL   WERNER. 

that  she  could  have  freely  told  him  every  secret 
of  her  bosom. 

"'But  a  few  days  —  and  before  this  time,  he 
hath  shown  none  of  these  habits  ?' 

"  '  None,  father — none  of  this  wildness  and  af 
fliction.  He  hath  been  thoughtful  ever,  and  fond 
of  sad  thoughts,  —  but  he  hath  never  been  wild 
and  stern  as  he  is  now,  and  never  did  he  go  abroad 
in  this  fashion  after  the  night,' 

"  '  You  tell  me  of  one,'  said  the  stranger,  after  a 
brief  pause  given  to  thought — 'You  tell  me  of 
one  who  hath  done  a  sudden  wrong,  and  whom  a 
just  conscience  is  smiting  sorely  ;  or,  one,  per 
chance,  who  is  fond  of*his  error,  or,  from  a  false 
and  unseemly  pride,  who  persisteth  in  it.' 

"'Oh,  no,  father — I  cannot  think  it.  Carl 
would  never  wrong  human  being.  He  is  the  most 
just  and  honorable  of  our  village  —  that  every 
body  says  of  him.' 

"  '  That  may  be,  my  daughter,  but  is  there  no 
wronging  of  God  and  of  one's  self —  which  is  also 
a  wronging  of  God,  as  it  perverts  the  service  of  the 
creature  from  the  place  and  power  to  which  it  is 
due.  Can  you  tell  me  that  Carl  Werner  has  not 
done  this.' 

"  Matilda  tried  to  think,  before  she  answered, 
whether  she  had  mentioned  her  husband's  name. 


CARL    WERNER.  69 

She  did  not  recollect  having  done  so,  and  yet  the 
old  man  had  pronounced  it.  Before  she  could  re 
solve  this  thought  or  reply,  the  stranger  continued  : 

"  *  It  is  always  a  bad  sign  to  see  one,  on  a  sud 
den,  depart  from  a  good  habit,  my  daughter.  You 
say  that  your  husband  seldom  or  never  went  forth 
at  night,  but  always  preferred  to  remain  at  home, 
until  now.' 

"'Yes,  father,  —  but  it  is  with  evident  reluc 
tance  that  he  now  leaves  me.  It  is  like  tearing 
himself  away  that  he  rushes  out  of  the  house,  soon 
after  nightfall,  and  goes  off  I  know  not  where.' 

"  '  To  return  miserable,'  said  the  old  man.  '  To 
bring  him  back  to  an  old  habit,  my  daughter,  is 
probably  to  give  him  the  peace  of  mind  which  you 
say  he  seems  to  lack.  Have  you  striven  to  keep 
him  at  home,  my  daughter,  since  you  have  seen 
the  evil  of  this  habit  ?' 

"  '  I  have,  my  father,  but  without  success,'  was 
the  reply. 

"  «  You  must  do  it,'  said  the  old  man  with  vehe 
mence  — '  you  must  do  it.  A  good  wife,  who 
loves  her  husband,  and  is  beloved  by  him,  has  a 
thousand  sweet  arts  of  persuasion  which  will  not 
fail  to  procure  from  him  her  wishes.  Your  hus 
band  loves  you.' 

" «  Of  a  truth,  I  think  it.' 


70  CARL    WERNER. 

"  *  Then,  my  daughter,  if  you  love  him,  you 
shall  not  fail  to  persuade  him,  if  you  seek  to  do  it. 
You  must  keep  him  at  home.  He  must  not  go 
abroad.  These  nightly  wanderings  make  his  in 
firmity.  They  prove  that  he  is  subject  to  some 
evil  influence,  which  thus  exacts  his  obedience, 
and  imposes  upon  him  this  form  of  service.  You, 
and  you  alone,  can  save  him  ;  for,  as  the  evil  influ 
ence  strives  through  the  powers  of  hate,  it  can 
only  be  safely  contended  with  by  the  powers  of 
love.  This  is  the  war  which  is  ever  going  on  be 
tween  the  two  great  principles  by  which  the  world 
is  divided.  You  must  prove  that  the  principle  of 
love  in  your  bosom  is  stronger  than  that  of  hate  in 
the  enemy  of  your  husband.  Can  you  prove  this, 
my  daughter;  for,  unless  you  can,  Carl  Werner  is 
lost  to  you  forever,  as  he  certainly  will  soon  be  lost 
to  himself.7 

"  '  I  can  —  I  will !'  cried  the  devoted  wife,  with 
terror  and  love  both  equally  mingled  in  her  coun 
tenance  ;  for  the  words  of  the  venerable  old  man 
had  deeply  impressed  her,  and  a  something  in  his 
air  and  manner  assured  her  that  he  was  worthy  of 
all  confidence. 

"'I  can  —  I  will,  my  father — only  tell  me 
what  I  shall  do  —  how  work  —  what  say.' 

" '  Love  needs  no  counsellor,  my  daughter,  for 


CARL   WERNER.  71 

it  is  God's  nature,  and  is  by  instinct  wise.  True 
love,  I  speak  of;  and  not  the  idle  fancies  which 
the  profligate  and  vain  have  misnamed  love.  If 
you  lo  e  Carl  Werner  with  a  true  wife's  love,  you 
will  seek  that  he  should  be  always  with  you  —  you 
will  seek  to  make  him  happy.  These  are  your 
present  tasks.  You  must  begin  by  keeping  him 
from  this  wandering  habit.  He  must  not  go  forth 
again  at  night  —  for  he  flies  from  the  principle  of 
love,  to  pay  homage  to  the  principle  of  hate. 
Withdraw  him  from  that  foul  worship,  and  he  is 
safe,  and  you  are  both  happy.' 

"  It  would  be  needless  to  dwell  upon,  or  to  de 
tail,  the  farther  dialogue  which  then  took  place 
between  the  young  wife  and  her  venerable  guest. 
It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the  longer  she  listened  to 
to  his  counsel,  the  more  she  became  impressed  with 
its  force,  and  with  the  necessity  for  its  adoption. 
While  she  heard  him  she  had  no  wish  for  sleep, 
and  hours  seemed  to  pass  away  like  minutes  until 
the  clock  struck  the  midnight  hour,  and  she  then 
grew  more  than  ever  alarmed  at  the  aBsence  of 
her  husband.  She  was  desirous  of  putting  into 
use  and  exercise  the  advice  which  the  old  man 
had  given  her,  and  would  have  sallied  forth,  even 
then,  to  look  after  him,  when  the  stranger  dissua 
ded  her  from  it. 


72  CARL    WERNER. 

"  *  Do  you  remain,'  he  said,  *  while  I  go  forth 
and  seek  him.' 

"  '  You  !'  —  she  said  — '  no,  father,  you  are  too 
old  and  feeble,  and  your  limbs  are  weary  with  the 
long  day's  travel.' 

"  He  rose,  as  she  spoke  these  words,  and  as  he 
moved  over  the  floor,  she  was  answered.  Where 
had  those  aged  limbs  acquired  that  strength  and 
elasticity  which  they  now  exhibited  ? 

" '  But  you  know  not  where  to  seek  him,  my 
father.' 

"  He  smiled  ;  and  she  did  not  doubt,  when  she 
beheld  that  smile,  that  the  aged  man  knew  better 
where  to  find  her  husband  than  she  did  herself. 
He  paused  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  and  bid 
ding  her  be  of  good  cheer,  he  blessed  the  house 
and  departed. 


XV. 

"  Meanwhile,  what  of  Carl  Werner  ?  With  a 
fearful  instinct  he  proceeded,  upon  leaving  his 
dwelling,  to  the  place  of  meeting  with  the  spectre. 
Vainly  did  he  strive  against  the  fascination  which 
impelled  him  to  seek  the  abbey.  Why  should  he 
so  wilfully  seek  that  which  was  so  full  of  torture  ? 


CARL   WERNER.  73 

He  had  now  no  wish  to  hear  the  revelations  of  the 
dead — he  had  no  thought,  certainly,  to  profit  by 
them,  when  brought  by  one  whose  very  presence 
was  so  terrific ;  still  less  did  he  desire  to  owe  his 
knowledge  to  a  source  so  foul  and  fearful.  These 
were  his  thoughts,  nor  his  thoughts  merely. 
These  were  his  frequent  resolves  throughout  the 
day.  « I  will  not  go  to-night,'  his  lips  muttered 
at  all  hours  ;  yet,  with  the  coining  of  evening,  his 
good  resolutions  failed  him.  A  power  whicli  he 
strove  vainly  to  resist,  drove  him  onward  ;  and  like 
the  criminal,  reluctant  yet  compelled,  he  appeared 
regularly  at  the  appointed  hour  at  the  summons  of 
his  tyrant.  Carl  felt  that  there  was  a  judgment  in 
all  this.  He  felt  that  it  was  a  decree  of  heaven 
against  him  for  the  unholy  feelings  and  desires  of 
his  heart.  Yet,  where,  and  when,  and  how,  was 
this  to  end  ?  He  dared  not  think  !  His  knees 
trembled  beneath  him  as  he  put  this  question  to 
himself,  and  felt,  with  the  increasing  weakness 
and  misery  of  every  moment,  that  it  could  end 
only  in  his  death. 

"  This  conviction  was  despair.  Despair  has  its 
strength,  but  it  is  the  strength  accorded  by  a  de 
mon  at  a  fearful  price.  The  price  was  hope  and 
peace  —  the  penalty  was  the  loss  of  two  lives  — 
the  life  of  the  present,  and  the  life  to  come.  Carl 

VOL.  i.  7 


74  CARL    WERNER. 

felt  that  they  were  already  gone,  and  all  his 
thoughts  were  now  given  to  the  demon.  The 
principle  of  hate  grew  active  in  his  fears,  and  the 
principle  of  love  grew  feebler  and  feebler,  in  the 
continual  decay  of  his  hopes.  The  strife  was  not 
only  against  Carl  Warner,  but  it  was  against  the 
sweet  young  wife  of  his  bosom.  He  felt  it  to  be 
so,  himself,  as  he  found  himself  continually  labor 
ing  not  to  think  of  her. 

"  We  need  not  say,  that  in  the  abbey  that  night, 
the  same  hour  of  torture  was  passed  by  Carl,  in 
company  with  the  demon,  as  before.  The  belief 
that  his  friend  was  the  victim  and  the  slave  of  hell, 
sent  forth  by  the  infernal  monarch  to  perform  a 
duty  which  he  dared  not  disobey,  was  the  racking 
conviction  to  Carl.  Vainly  he  demanded  of  the 
spectre  to  disavow  the  features  he  had  assumed. 
His  prayer  was  idle.  Would  the  principle  of 
hate  yield  up  his  chief  vantage  ground  ?  As  well 
might  he  implore  indulgence  from  that  power, 
whose  only  office  is  punishment.  He  raved  to  the 
demon  —  defied  his  malice,  and  vainly  flattered 
himself  that  the  passion  which  he  showed  to  his 
tormentor,  was,  in  reality,  a  re-assertion  of  his  vir 
tue.  Thus  do  men  hourly  chain  themselves  with 
their  own  sophisms.  The  very  tumult  in  his  soul, 
and  the  violence  of  his  lips,  as  they  sprang  from  a 


CARL    WERNER.  75 

feeling  of  hostility,  were,  in  truth,  only  so  many 
tributes  to  the  principle  of  hate.  The  fearless 
calm,  the  gentle  earnestness  of  love,  were  not  in 
his  heart.  It  was  rather  a  place  of  fears  and  strife ; 
and  every  moment  of  his  paroxysm,  increased  the 
number  of  avenues  through  which  sin  might  enter 
and  perpetuate  its  sway.  The  conflict  nearly  de 
stroyed  the  mortal.  Almost  exhausted,  Carl 
rushed  from  the  ruins;  and,  this  time,  he  left  the 
demon  squat  upon  the  tomb-stone,  where  he  had 
sat  all  the  time  of  their  conference,  glowing  and 
grinning  at  the  agony,  and  yelling  forth  his  dread 
ful  laughter,  as  he  beheld  the  flight  of  the  victim. 
. 

XVI. 

"  Carl  was  not  permitted  to  reach  his  home  in 
peace.  A  group  of  revellers  stood  in  his  path 
as  he  w7as  about  to  enter  the  village.  They 
danced  and  sang  at  his  approach,  and  soon  gath 
ered  around  him  with  tumultuous  cries.  They 
sang  in  his  ears  the  praises  of  revelry,  and  invited 
him  to  join  them. 

"  'Be  not  churlish,  brother,'  was  the  cry  — 
6  why  cherish  care?  why  mate  with  sorrow  ?  why 
deny  thyself  to  live?  The  wine,  the  wine,  boys, 


76  CARL    WERNER. 

and  here's  health  and  a  fresh  heart  to  our  new 
companion/ 

"  Carl  envied  them  their  felicity ;  and  their 
language,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  seemed 
sweet  in  his  ears.  Hitherto,  he  had  led  the  life  of 
an  abstemious  and  wholly  studious  youth,  reject 
ing  utterly  those  noisy  and  spendthrift  pleasures 
which  are  so  apt  to  lead  astray  the  young.  He 
began  to  think  that  he  had  erred  in  his  practice, 
and  had  been  guilty  of  injustice  to  a  class  of  per 
sons  who  were  a  great  deal  wiser  than  himself. 
The  torments  which  he  had  just  undergone,  pre 
pared  him  for  this  way  of  thinking.  He  hesita 
ted,  murmured,  looked  vacantly  around  him,  and 
they  took  him  gently  by  the  arm,  and  renewed 
their  solicitations.  Among  the  foremost  of  these, 
he  now  recognized  the  bacchanalian  who  had  be 
fore  assailed  him.  But  he  was  not  intoxicated  on 
this  occasion  ;  and  while  he  spoke  with  the  words 
and  warmth  of  a  boon  companion,  his  language 
was  carefully  chosen  and  gently  insinuating.  Carl 
began  to  yield  ;  his  eyes  were  already  turned  in 
longing  upon  the  tavern  —  his  feet  were  at  the 
guidance  of  the  individual  we  have  just  spoken 
of — in  his  thought,  the  indulgence  of  wine  began 
to  assume  the  appearance  of  a  leading  and  neces 
sary  object :  and  in  another  moment  the  powers  of 


CARL    WERNER.  77 

evil  would  have  made  large  strides  towards  the 
possession  of  their  victim,  when  another  hand 
pressed  the  arm  of  Carl  Werner,  and  a  g  >r-tle, 
but  strange  voice,  in  his  ears  pronounced  the 
name  of  his  wife. 

"  *  Matilda  —  she  waits  you,  Carl  —  she  suffers 
at  your  long  absence.  Will  you  not  go  to  her  ?' 

"  The  old  man  whom  we  have  seen  setting  forth 
from  the  house  of  the  wife  in  search  of  the  husband, 
stood  at  his  elbow.  He  had  come  in  time.  His 
words  operated  like  magic,  and  Carl  broke  away 
from  his  conductors. 

"  l  Matilda — my  wife  —  my  poor  wife  !'  he  ex 
claimed —  '  Yes — let  me  go  to  her.' 

If  the  words  of  the  aged  man  were  so  quick  and 
powerful  to  move  Carl  Werner,  his  presence  seem 
ed  to  have  no  less  an  effect  upon  those  who  sought 
to  lead  the  youth  astray.  They  shrank  away 
from  the  stranger  with  hisses,  and  though  reviling 
him,  they  still  fled.  Carl  was  surprised  at  this, 
and  the  more  surprised  and  horror  stricken 
when  he  distinguished  among  the  howls  and  hisses 
of  the  flying  crew,  the  horrible  laugh  which 
had  so  much  haunted  him  before.  The  old  man 
took  no  heed  of  their  clamor,  but  composedly 
conversed  with  Carl  while  they  proceeded  to  the 

lodgings  of  the  latter,  with  all  the  calmness  and 

7* 


78  CARL  WERNER. 

ease  of  one  whom  a  confidence  of  superiority  keeps 
from  anger  towards  an  inferior,  as  certainly  as  it 
protects  from  harm. 


XVII. 

* 

"  Carl  felt  better  and  happier  in  the  embraces  of 
his  wife  when  he  reached  home,  than  he  had  felt 
for  some  days  before.  The  principle  of  love  was 
reviving  within  him.  The  conversation  of  their 
aged  guest  contributed  largely  to  this  improve 
ment.  They  could  not  but  acknowledge  the  in 
fluence  which  they  could  not  but  feel.  Yet  he 
could  scarcely  be  said  to  converse.  His  words 
seemed  so  many  laws  settling  doubts  and  silenc 
ing  controversy.  He  spoke  from  authority  —  from 
an  authority,  seemingly,  even  beyond  that  of  strong 
common  sense  and  great  experience.  Carl  was 
surprised  and  pleased  to  find  himself  able  to  listen 
to  his  words ;  and  though  the  terrible  strifes  which 
he  had  recently  undergone  were  still  busy  in  his 
mind,  he  yet  found  pleasure  in  his  new  compa 
nion.  Much  of  the  old  man's  conversation  seemed, 
indeed,  to  be  intended  for  his  particular  case.  He 
spoke  of  the  '  various  encounters  to  which  mor 
tals  were  subject..  The  necessity  of  confidence  in 


CARL  WERNER;  79 

heaven's  justice  —  the  willingness  to  wait  —  the 
readiness  to  endure.  He  then  spoke  of  the  prin 
ciple  of  love  as  he  had  spoken  to  Matilda.  He 
insisted  upon  it  as  sufficiently  strong-  to  withstand 
the  opposite  principle  of  hate,  and  to  trample  over 
it  in  the  end.  The  conflict,  he  said,  would  be 
long  and  perilous,  and  it  would  be  continued 
through  nations  and  individuals  to  the  end  of 
time  ;  —  patience,  he  said,  and  perseverance, 
prompted  by  the  spirit  of  love,  which  is  eternal, 
would  be  certain  to  achieve  the  victory.  In  the 
meantime,  it  would  be  necessary  that  the  labors  of 
love  should  be  increased  and  strengthened.  We 
should  strive  to  love  one  another,  as  the  best  policy, 
and  the  noblest  moral  economy.  Every  falling  oft' 
in  our  affections  from  each  other,  was  a  gain  to 
the  rebelling  principle  of  hate,  and  kept  back  hu 
manity  from  its  hope  of  heaven.  Every  increase  in 
the  amount  of  human  love,  was  a  succor  to  the 
sovereign  principle  ;  as  much  so,  as,  in  the  warfare 
among  men,  would  be  the  accession  of  new  num 
bers.  To  love  one  another  is  to  conquer  evil,  for 
as  evil  toils  through  the  principle  of  hate,  it  can 
only  be  successful  over  us,  by  engendering  in  our 
bosoms  hostility  to  our  fellows,  and  a  general 
faithlessness  of  each  other,  which  must  produce 
hostility.  To  confide,  should  be  the  first  lesson,. 


80  CARL  WERNER. 

as   it  is    always  the    first  and   noblest  proof   of 
love!' 

"  This  counsel  strengthened  Carl  Werner  and 
his  wife,  and  made  them  both  think.  Carl  felt 
calmer  as  he  thought,  and  retired  to  his  chamber 
with  new  and  better  resolutions.  The  old  man 
prayed  with  the  two  before  they  retired  ;  but  though 
Carl  knelt  with  the  rest,  he  yet  found  it  impossi 
ble  to  pray.  He  could  only  think,  and  his 
thoughts  were  confused,  apprehensive,  and  not 
given,  as  he  felt  himself,  to  the  sovereign  principle 
of  love.  When  he  retired  to  his  chamber,  he  re 
solved  to  pray  alone  ;  but  he  could  not.  He 
knelt  by  the  bedside  in  vain.  His  tongue  seemed 
to  cleave  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  His  brain 
seemed  to  glow  like  fire,  and  he  longed  once  more 
for  the  presence  and  the  conversation  of  the  aged 
man.  He  slept  but  little  during  the  night,  and 
when  Matilda  awakened  at  intervals,  she  heard 
nothing  but  his  groans. 

"  The  next  day  the  old  man  sought  an  oppor 
tunity  of  conversation  with  Matilda  in  secret. 

"'My  daughter,'  he  said,  'your  husband 
must  not  go  forth  to-night.  You  must  exert  all 
your  strength  —  all  the  strength  of  your  love; 
spare  no  prayers,  no  solicitations,  but  you  must 
keep  him  at  home.  He  goes  to  pay  homage  to 


CARL    WERNER.  81 

the  principle  of  hate.  He  must  break  his  bondage. 
He  must  withhold  his  homage  ;  and  he  must  prove 
that  he  renounces  the  hateful  worship,  ere  the  prin 
ciple  of  love  will  come  certainly  to  his  aid.  He  will 
not  find  relief — he  cannot  be  happy  —  till  then  ; 
and  he  must  do  this  himself.  We  can  do  nothing 
towards  it,  save  by  our  prayers,  and  these  will  be 
of  little  avail,  until,  of  his  own  resolve,  he  breaks 
to  you  the  secret  of  his  sorrow.  When  he  freely 
and  voluntarily  declares  to  you  the  trouble  of  his 
mind,  he  will  find  relief.  To  confide  our  wo  to  a 
beloved  one,  is  to  find  healing.  He  must  acknow 
ledge  this  truth,  ere  he  can  hope  for  healing  ;  and 
it  is  a  truth  that  he  must  teach  himself.  I  warn 
you,  therefore,  unfold  nothing  that  I  have  said  to 
you,  which  shall  move  him  to  this  determination, 
else  it  will  be  of  no  avail.  We  may  tremble,  but 
we  must  be  silent ;  and  if  our  fears  become 
stronger  than  our  hopes,  we  must  then  only  resort 
to  our  prayers.' 

"  That  day  the  old  man  gave  Carl  himself  a 
lesson  which  had  its  effect  in  promoting  the  wishes 
of  all,  though,  to  the  passing  thought,  it  would 
seem  to  have  no  necessary  connexion  with  the  mis 
fortunes  of  the  latter.  He  saw  him  in  a  condition 
of  stupor,  sitting  upon  the  threshold,  and  evi 
dently  unconscious  of  all  things  around  him. 


82  CARL    WERNER. 

" « My  son,'  he  said,  *  we  do  not  all  our  duties 
when  we  have  said  our  prayers.  Indeed,  we  may 
be  said  to  do  none  of  them,  if  we  do  but  this.  Our 
prayers  are  offered  that  we  may  have  strength  and 
judgment  to  perform  our  duties  rightly  and  tho 
roughly.  The  first  of  these  is  industry.  The  de 
cree  of  God  —  one  of  the  first  —  is  one  of  the  ele 
ments  of  religion.  "  Thou  shalt  earn  thy  bread 
in  the  sweat  of  thy  face."  He  who  prays  merely, 
and  toils  none,  is  a  hypocrite,  and  though  he  may 
deceive  himself  and  his  fellow  men,  he  cannot  de 
ceive  God  by  his  professions.' 

"'Alas!    my  father  —  I  would  work,'  said  the 
unhappy  Carl,  «  but  I  cannot  —  I  am  sick  —  I  am 
sad  —  too  sad  —  too  sick  to  work.' 
"  '  Hast  thou  tried,  my  son.' 
"  ;  Of  what  use  to  try,  my  father.**  I  feel  that  I 
should  do  nothing.' 

"  '  The  will  is  the  service,  my  son.  God  tasks 
not  your  service,  but  he  receives  the  free  tribute 
of  your  heart,  and  if  the  will  is  free  to  serve  him, 
the  amount  of  your  body's  service  is  of  little  re 
gard.  Try  —  let  the  will  govern  the  limbs,  and 
they  will  do  much.  Certainly,  thy  labor  will  les 
sen  the  troubles  of  thy  mind,  which,  in  most  cases, 
spring  from  the  tyrannous  imbecility  of  the  frame. 


CARL    WERNER.  83 

Try,  my  son  —  thy  labors  will  avail  thee  much 
more  in  thy  sadness  than  all  thy  prayers.' 

"  Carl  obeyed,  and  strove  diligently  to  labor, 
and  though  he  did  but  little,  yet  he  felt  better  from 
what  he  did.  The  old  man  conversed  with  him 
while  he  toiled,  and  he  gathered  goodly  counsel, 
and  pleasant  consolation,  from  his  words.  But  as 
the  day  waned,  the  agonizing  apprehensions  of 
Carl  were  renewed.  The  fascinating  spells  of  the 
demon  began  to  work  upon  his  mind,  and  his  in 
creasing  disquiet  became  visible  to  his  household. 
At  supper  he  was  unconscious  of  the  meats  before 
him,  until  the  words  of  the  aged  guest  aroused  his 
consideration,  while  be  prayed  for  a  blessing  upon 
the  repast.  Carl  gradually  grew  fixed  in  mute 
attention  as  he  listened  to  the  terms  of  this  prayer, 
which  was,  in  some  respects,  peculiar.  The  old 
man  prayed  that '  the  fond  husband  might  ever  be 
heedful  of  the  affections  with  which  he  had  been 
endowed  by  the  confiding  wife  —  that  he  might 
heed  the  meaning  of  her  pale  cheek,  her  tearful 
eye,  and  laboring  bosom  —  that  he  might  never 
estrange  himself  from  one  who  looked  so  much,  so 
entirely  to  him,  for  countenance  and  comfort  —  and 
that  the  ways  of  error  into  which  frail  mortality 
was  ever  but  too  t  rone  to  fall,  might  never  seduce 


84  CARL    WERNER. 

the  regards  of  the  comforter,  from  the  weak  but 
confiding  heart  to  which  they  were  entirely  due.' 
"  Much  more  after  this  fashion  was  said  by  the 
old  man,  but  these  words  had  their  effect.  Carl 
looked  upon  his  wife  with  eyes  of  closer  inquiry 
than  he  had  fixed  upon  her  for  many  days.  He 
saw,  for  the  first  time,  that  her  cheek  was  pale  — 
as  if  death  had  set  his  hand  upon  it  —  that  her  eye 
was  full  of  tears  —  and  that  her  bosom  heaved 
with  an  anguish  which  her  lips  had  never  spoken. 
Her  eye  caught  the  glance  of  his  own  while  he 
gazed,  and  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  —  rose 
from  the  table  —  rushed  to  the  spot  where  her 
husband  sat,  and  threw  herself  at  his  feet.  How 
dreadfully  was  he  shocked  by  this  movement ! 
How  bitterly  did  he  reproach  himself!  He  felt 
that  he  had  been  selfish  —  that,  heedful  of  his  own 
sufferings  only,  he  had  given  neither  eye  nor 
thought  to  hers.  He  sank  down  upon  the  floor 
beside  her  ;  and  he  muttered  broken  words,  implo 
ring  forgiveness.  The  venerable  guest  saw  that 
the  moment  was  come,  when  love  was  to  obtain 
the  mastery  or  forever  fail ;  and  without  being 
seen  by  the  two,  he  left  the  apartment.  But  his 
words  had  been  deeply  impressed  upon  the  mind 
of  Matilda,  and  she  needed  not  his  presence  to 
prompt  her  in  the  performance  of  her  task.  She 


CARL   WERNER.  85 

poured  out  her  full  heart  to  her  husband,  told  him 
of  her  fears  during  his  absence,  of  her  sufferings 
as  she  beheld  the  sapping  and  overcoming  charac 
ter  of  his,  and  implored  him,  for  the  love  which  he 
had  once  vowed  her,  as  earnestly  as  if  she  had 
lost  it.  Long  and  trying  was  their  conference, 
and  more  than  once  the  wife  despaired  of  her  ob 
ject.  But  though  she  trembled,  she  yet  implored, 
and  the  principle  of  love  prevailed.  The  heart  of 
Carl  was  touched  —  the  seal  removed  from  the 
fountain  —  and  he  poured  forth,  in  her  astounded 
but  unshrinking  senses,  the  whole  strange  and 
dreadful  secret. 


XVIII. 

"  He  had  scarcely  done  so,  when  he  heard  a  tap 
on  the  window,  as  of  one  claiming  admission.  He 
started,  he  trembled  —  a  guilty  fear  rose  in  his 
throat  and  choked  him. 

"  '  It  is  he  —  the  demon  —  the  spectre  !'  he  ex 
claimed,  gaspingly. 

"  '  Bid  him  enter,'  cried  the  old  man,  who  had 
returned  to  the  apartment  without  their  perceiving 
either  his  departure  or  his  entrance,  and  who 
VOL  i.  8 


86  CARL    WERNER. 

seemed  perfectly  conversant  with  the  whole  narra 
tive — 

"  <  Bid  him  enter,  Carl.' 

"  But  Carl  hesitated  and  trembled.  He  moved 
not ;  and  Matilda  rose  to  her  feet. 

"'I  fear  nothing!'  she -exclaimed  — l  I  will 
throw  open  the  window.  If  it  be  the  spirit  of 
Herman  Ottfried,  he  will  not  harm  me.  If  it  be 
other  than  his,  it  cannot.  God  be  with  me  —  for 
I  will  do  it!' 

"  The  voice  of  the  old  man  arrested  her,  as  she 
was  about  to  do  what  she  had  said. 

"  <  Daughter !' 

"  She  turned,  and  saw  that  his  eye  rested  anx 
iously  upon  Carl,  and  she  then  understood  that 
the  office  belonged  to  her  husband.  She  did  not 
need  to  look  upon  him  twice.  He  had  been  pray 
ing  while  she  spoke,  and  he  now  rose. 

"  'No,  Matilda  —  the  task  should  be  mine.  I 
have  looked  upon  the  fiend  before  —  I  do  not  fear 
to  look  upon  him  again.  Still  less  do  I  fear — 
having  your  eyes  upon,  and  your  prayers  for,  me.' 

"  A  horrible  yell  of  laughter  reached  his  ears  from 
the  outside,  and  half  unmanned  him.  He  shivered 
all  over ;  but  just  then  the  aged  guest  repeated 
these  words,  as  if  for  himself. 

"  «  The  Lord  is  my  strength,  and  my  redeemer. 


CARL    WERNER.  87 

He  is  with  me,  and  I  fear  not  the  evil  one.  Be  of 
good  cheer,  oh,  my  soul,  for  in  this  is  thy  strength. 
Thou  shalt  prevail  in  the  strife  with  thy  enemy, 
even  as  love  prevaileth  over  hate,  and  the  spirit  of 
God  over  the  spirit  of  the  devil.' 

"  With  a  single  blow  of  his  fist,  Carl  threw 
wide  the  shutter,  and  though  his  voice  trembled 
while  he  spoke,  yet  the  words  which  he  uttered 
were  distinct  — 

"  t  Enter  —  if  it  be  God's  will — enter!' 


XIX. 

"  The  mocking  spectre  was  once  more  before 
him — and  the  grin  of  malice  and  imagined  victory 
was  again  visible  upon  his  countenance,  until  he 
beheld  the  form  of  the  venerable  guest,  still  kneel 
ing  upon  the  floor,  with  eyes  and  hands  uplifted  to 
heaven,  and  seeming  as  if  he  beheld  him  not. 
Then  his  whole  aspect  was  altered.  His  grin  be 
came  a  bitter  scorn,  and,  thoilgh  he  still  wore  the 
exact  features  of  Herman  Ottfried,  yet  the  whole 
expression  was  so  changed  to  that  of  a  hellish  hate, 
that,  even  to  the  eyes  of  Carl,  the  likeness  seemed 
almost  gone. 


88  CARL    WERNER. 

"  {  Thou  here !'  exclaimed  the  spectre,  address 
ing  the  aged  man. 

"  '  Thou  seest!'  was  the  reply. 

«  1 1  See —  but  thou  art  here  in  vain  —  thy 
prayers  will  avail  him  nothing  —  he  hath  bound 
himself  to  me.  My  power  is  upon  his  pledge. 
He  cannot  escape— he  must  meet  me  where  I 
will  ;  and  when  he  forbears  to  come — when, 
urged  by  such  as  thee,  he  presumes  to  disobey,  I 
will  seek  him  with  redoubled  tortures,  where  he 
hides,  and  tear  him  from  thy  very  altars.  Carl 
Werner  — I  command  thee.  Come  !* 

"  Carl  trembled  all  over,  and  he  felt  an  irresist 
ible  power  dragging  him  forward.  At  this  mo 
ment  the  old  man  spoke  — 

"  'His  pledge  shall  be  fulfilled — but  not  to 
thee.  Look,  Satan !  -—God  hath  heard  the  pray 
ers  of  love —  and  his  messenger  comes  to  release 
the  thrall  of  hate.  Look  !  —  the  pledge  is  re 
deemed  ?' 

"As  he  spoke,  he  pointed  to  the  opposite  corner 
of  the  apartment,  upon  which  his  eyes  had  been 
earnestly  fixed,  even  while  the  demon  was  address 
ing  him.  There,  visible  to  all,  stood  another 
spectre,  having  the  precise  features  of  Herman 
Ottfried,  and  the  very  expression  which  he  was 
wont  to  wear  in  life.  The  contrast  between  the 


CARL    WERNER. 


89 


one  and  the  other  spectre,  both  having  the  same 
features,  was  prodigious!  They  represented  dif 
ferent  principles.  The  one  had  borne  the  fea 
tures  of  punishment  —  the  other  came  with  the 
mild  attributes  of  mercy.  Alike  in  every  feature, 
they  were  yet  as  utterly  unlike  as  night  and  day. 

"  The  demon  put  on  a  look  of  agony,  mingled 
with  hate  and  disappointment,  as,  with  a  howl  and 
hiss,  he  fled  from  the  presence  of  the  spectre  whose 
features  he  had  worn  for  the  purposes  of  hate,  but 
whose  glance  of  benignity  and  love  he  could  not 
withstand.  Howling  with  hate,  he  fled  ;  while  the 
gentle  spirit  advanced  into  the  apartment. 

"  'Oh,  brother,  dearest  Herman!'  cried  the 
sister,  with  a  joyful  accent,  as  she  rushed  towards 
him.  She  sunk  down  upon  the  spot  where  she 
would  have  embraced  him,  and  her  eyes  beheld 
his  shadowy  form  melting  away,  even  like  the  last 
gleam  of  a  lovely  sunset  into  the  distant  shadows. 

"  '  Look  to  your  wife,  my  son,'  said  the  aged 
man  —  *  she  swoons —  give  her  help.' 

"  Carl  raised  his  wife,  and  in  a  little  while  she 
recovered — but  the  aged  man  had  disappeared. 
They  never  saw  him  again. 


8* 


IPSISTOS.3 


"With  this  — 

I  mix  more  lowly  matter ;  with  the  thing 
Contemplated,  describe  the  mind  of  man, 
Contemplating ;  and  who,  and  what  he  was, 
The  transitory  being  that  beheld 
This  vision,  —  when,  and  where,  and  how  he  lived." 

Wordsworth. 


IPSISTOS; 


WITH  the  first  tokens  of  the  gray  dawning,  and 
while  yet  the  thin  gray  mists  lay  like  a  gauzy  veil 
above  the  half-canopied  mountains,  the  gates  of 
the  great  city  were  thrown  open,  and  the  people 
thereof  began  to  pour  forth  in  mighty  crowds. 
Like  a  swollen  torrent,  that  forces  its  way  over 
the  barrier  and  broken  rocks,  they  came  roaring 
and  rushing,  less  with  the  innate  feeling  of  power 
than  of  enjoyment.  A  universal  spirit  of  intoxi 
cation  seemed  to  possess  the  multitude,  and  by 
tens,  by  twenties,  and  by  hundreds,  with  wild  and 
dissonant  cries  of  mingling  yet  discordant  voices, 
they  pressed  their  way  through  the  narrow  gate 
way,  and  came  forth  clamoring  upon  the  plain. 
The  aged  and  the  yet  green  in  youth — wise,  ven 
erable  men — -devout  matrons,  —  trembling  and 
hopeful  maidens,  — and  sportive  childhood,  that 


94  IPSISTOS. 

laughs  and  leaps,  were  mingling1  together,  until, 
even  ere  the  sun  had  yet  risen,  the  vast  esplanade 
in  front  of  the  city  was  covered  with  their  forms. 
One  mighty  will  seemed  to  move  in  every  heart, 
and  to  unite  all  voices  in  a  universal  song,  as  if 
for  some  great  deliverance.  An  hundred  thou 
sand  tongues  mingled  in  the  strain,  and  the  hills 
that  surrounded  them  gave  back  the  melody  with  a 
seven-fold  echo. 

"Lofty  and  beautiful  is  the  temple  that  stands 
above  the  hill !"  Such  was  the  song  of  the  multi 
tude. —  "  Lofty  is  the  temple  on  the  high  hill,  and 
lovely  is  the  goddess  who  sits  in  power  therein. 
Let  us  to  the  temple,  oh  !  ye  people.  Let  us  bow 
down  before  the  goddess  thereof,  and  bury  our 
faces  in  the  sacred  dust  that  lies  at  her  footstool. 
Let. us  put  her  feet  upon  our  necks,  and  grow 
great  by  reason  of  our  abasement.  Let  us  carry 
the  fatted  lamb  and  the  bleating  kid,  for  sweet  is 
the  savor  of  the  burnt  offering  in  her  nostrils,  and 
she  smiles  when  the  flamen  smites  the  heavy  ox 
in  the  forehead,  and  his  dying  blood  besprinkles 
her  garments.  To  the  temple  on  the  hill,  oh  !  ye 
people,  —  to  the  lovely  goddess  who  dwells  there 
in.  Let  us  fly  to  her  worship,  — let  us  bring  our 
offerings, — the  fatted  lamb  and  the  calf,  and  the 
bleating  kid,  —  let  us  twine  about  their  necks  the 


IPSISTOS.  95 

flowers  that  are  in  season,  and  hang  their  brows 
with  clusters  of  the  bleeding  grape,  that  so  we 
may  show  our  love  for  the  goddess  -and  the 
priests,  and  our  reverence  for  the  white  temple 
that  stands  lofty  upon  the  hill." 

And  when  these  words  were  ended,  the  shout 
ing  of  the  far-stretching  multitude  grew  great 
again,  like  the  clamor  of  meeting  winds  and  waters ; 
and  they  ran  towards  the  white  temple  that  rose 
proudly  on  the  high  hill  in  the  rosy  light  of  the 
morning  —  the  swift  leading  the  way,  and  the 
strong  rushing  after,  giving  no  heed  to  the  cries 
and  the  groans  of  the  feeble  and  the  young,  whom 
they  overthrew  and  trampled  in  the  fury  of  their 
flight.  Well  did  they  know  that  the  goddess 
whom  they  sought  would  freely  forgive  the  evil 
which  happened  only  from  the  overflowing  of  their 
zeal  in  her  worship.  And  many  were  the  priests 
that  did  homage  for  that  people  around  the  altars 
of  the  goddess.  And  they  prayed  before  her 
presence,  that  she  would  come  forth  and  lend  grace 
to  her  worshippers  by  the  smile  of  her  benignant 
countenance.  And  the  multitude  brought  great 
store  of  gold  and  jewels,  and  with  gifts  of  value 
rewarded  those  who  served  them  in  this  wise. 
They  brought  bracelets  for  the  arms  of  solid 
gold,  and  bright  drops  of  amber  and  of  pearl  — 


96  IPSISTOS. 

of  jewels  from  the  mine,  and  pale  blue  water-gems 
rom  the  deep  —  to  hang  around  the  necks,  and 
fasten  in  the  ears,  of  that  sacred  priesthood.  And 
the  holy  men  prayed  steadfastly  before  the  god 
dess  for  the  multitude,  and  the  goddess  vouchsafed 
to  hear  and  to  smile  upon  their  prayers.  And  the 
golden  gates  of  the  temple  were  thrown  wide,  and 
the  multitude  shouted  anew  by  reason  of  their  ex 
ceeding  joy;  and,  in  the  madness  of  their  devo 
tion,  many  of  them  rushed  towards  the  golden  en 
trance,  ere  the  priest  had  yet  veiled  the  glory 
shining  from  within;  but  were  driven  back  and 
blinded  by  the  streams  of  excessive  light  which 
encountered  them  as  they  came.  But  soon  the 
gong  sounded,  which  was  the  signal  for  the  god 
dess  to  appear —  and  the  guards  that  waited  upon 
the  priests,  with  their  golden  lances,  drove  back 
the  impatient  multitude  from  the  path  of  the  pro 
cession,  which  was  to  move  towards  the  great  city, 
that  it  might  be  blessed  with  the  presence  of  the 
goddess.  Then,  as  the  crowd  gave  way,  came 
forth  the  car  of  the  sun,  borne  by  the  sacred  ox, 
whose  horns,  covered  with  gold,  had  each  a  glori 
ous  emerald  shining  thereon.  And  the  rays  of 
that  golden  orb  dazzled  the  eyes  of  those  who  too 
confidently  beheld  it,  and  they  threw  themselves 
upon  the  sands  as  it  came,  and  the  sacred  ox 


IPSISTOS.  97 

pressed  with  heavy  feet  upon  their  necks.  Then, 
perched  upon  a  crystal  bough,  and  borne  by  a 
lovely  boy,  whose  long  yellow  hair  floated  in 
trained  luxuriance  down  his  back,  came  forth  the 
milk-white  pigeon,  which  bore  the  words  of  the 
goddess  to  her  distant  worshippers;  and  the  boy 
that  carried  the  pigeon  was  blind  from  hrs  birth, 
and  it  was  the  eyes  of  the  sacred  bird  that  guided 
him  in  his  progress  ;  and  sometimes,  as  he  went, 
the  pigeon  would  fly  off  from  tlie  bough  to  bear 
the  words  of  the  goddess  to  the  priesthood,  and 
at  such  moments  the  boy  stoojd  still.  Next  came 
one  whose  arms  were  bound  to  his  side,  and  he  was 
clothed  in  yellow  garments,  and  he  bore  upon  his 
head  a  crystal  globe,  which  was  the  sign  of  eter 
nity,  and  within  might  be  seen  a  butterfly  with 
folded  wing,  and  this  was  the  sign  of  immortality. 
He  was  followed  by  an  hundred  others,  bound  and 
attired  like  himself,  and  their  bonds  were  a  token 
that  they  opposed  not  the  will  of  the  goddess  ; 
and  they  bore  the  globe  and  butterfly  by  turns. 
As  they  advanced  from  the  temple,  the  mighty  and 
mixed  multitude,  which  had  fallen  into  sudden 
silence  when  the  golden  sun  came  forth,  now,  as 
suddenly,  rose  into  clamorous  rejoicing — the  hills 
shook  in  their  shouting;  and,  from  the  vast  circle 
of  the  plain,  the  continued  voices  bore  to  the  city 
VOL.  i.  9 


98  IPSISTOS. 

the  glad  tidings  of  the  coming  of  the  goddess. 
Next  came  the  slaves — an  hundred  ebon-dyed 
slaves  from  Ethiopia  —  and  they  bore  heavy  cen 
sers  of  crystal  ;  and  ever  and  anon  they  scattered 
sweet  incense  among  the  people.  A  girdle  of  sil 
ver  cloth  was  wrapped  about  their  loins,  and  they 
wore  a  collar  of  silver,  and  a  chain  about  the  neck, 
of  silver  also.  A  chosen  band  followed  these,  of 
the  youth  dedicated  to  the  priesthood ;  and  they 
wore  no  badges,  and  their  garments  were  of  the 
coarsest  woollen.  After  these  came  the  sages,  the 
wisest  and  the  most  venerable  among  those  who 
had  given  themselves  to  the  service  of  the  god 
dess  from  their  childhood.  They  wore  long  white 
beards,  and  they  were  greatly  reverenced  among 
the  people  by  reason  of  their  close  neighborhood 
to  the  goddess,  and  as  they  were  the  first  to  know 
and  to  declare  her  irrevocable  decrees.  In  their 
secret  abodes  they  had  traced  the  history  and  du 
ties  of  the  heavenly  bodies  — had  locked  up  the 
niggard  sciences  in  narrow  cells,  making  them 
servants,  and  denying  them  to  that  world  which 
they  were  intended  to  inform  ;  but  which,  in  its 
inferior  ignorance,  might  only  have  abused  their 
offices.  To  these  succeeded  the  artificers,  the 
painters,  the  builders,  the  workers  in  fire,  and  the 
secret  properties  of  subtle  minerals.  Then  came 


IPSISTOS.  99 

the  high  priest,  an  experienced  magician,  than 
whom  the  great  city  knew  none  more  wise  and 
more  in  favor  with  the  goddess.  He  stood  upon 
the  platform,  which  was  of  solid  brass,  upon  which 
the  throne  of  the  goddess  was  raised.  His  robes 
were  of  sable,  but  under  them  might  be  seen  a 
belt  of  purple  and  living  fire.  A  serpent  twined 
itself  about  his  arm,  and  sometimes  lifted  its  green 
head  above  the  shoulder  of  the  priest,  whose  hand 
grasped  it  by  the  middle.  As  he  advanced,  his 
presence  announced  that  of  the  Deity,  and  was 
acknowledged  by  an  astounding  shout  from  the 
anxious  multitude.  The  car  of  the  goddess,  it 
self  a  temple,  now  rolled  heavily  through  the  bra 
zen  entrance.  It  was  drawn  by  the  ponderous  be 
hemoth,  whose  hoofs  were  coated  with  silver,  and 
whose  forward  step  shook  the  solid  earth  over 
which  he  came.  Around  the  car,  a  troop  of  love 
ly  priestesses  danced  on  feet  that  spurned  the  air, 
and  their  forms,  flexible  as  light,  melted  and  sunk 
away  into  continual  and  changing  shapes  of  grace 
and  luxuriance  ;  and  tears  of  light  gathered  in  the 
eyes  of  the  young  men  of  the  multitude,  as  they 
looked  upon  their  voluptuous  involutions.  These 
closed  the  procession,  and  as  they  passed  from  the 
brazen  door  of  the  temple,  it  shut,  of  itself,  with  a 
startling  and  tremendous  sound. 


100  IPSJSTOS. 


II. 


But  there  was  one  of  all  that  mighty  and  mixed 
multitude,  that  felt  not  with  the  rest  —  that  saw  not 
with  their  eyes,  nor  measured  the  things  he  saw 
by  their  understandings.  He  came  with  them 
from  the  city,  for  he  dared  not  remain  behind,  in 
that  time  of  general  jubilee;  but  his  voice  joined 
not  with  the  rest  in  swelling  the  clamor  of  rejoi 
cing.  With  slow  steps  and  a  sick  spirit,  he  fol 
lowed  far  behind,  and  his  heart  grew  cold  in  his 
bosom,  as  he  beheld  their  wild  impatience,  and  wit 
nessed  the  headlong  fury  of  their  devotion.  Their 
cries  stunned  and  troubled  him,  and  the  big  tears 
gathered  upon  his  eye-lashes. 

"  Beautiful,  indeed,"  murmured  Ipsistos  to  his 
own  heart,  — "  beautiful,  indeed,  is  the  goddess, 
— lovely  beyond  the  loveliness  of  woman,  whom 
the  keen  eye  of  the  builder  beheld,  where  she  lay 
buried  in  the  bosom  of  the  solid  rock,  whence  his 
nice  hand  arad  searching  instrument  of  steel,  gave 
her  release.  With  the  fine  touch  of  endowing  art 
he  removed  the  rude  dints  of  the  heavy  masses 
which  had  lain  so  long  upon  her  visage,  and 
brought  back  the  light  into  her  features,  and  the 


IPSISTOS.  101 

Jife  which  belongs  only  to  expression,  which  had 
been  banished  from  them  so  long.  In  her  temple 
have  the  people  raised  her,  and  they  behold  in  her 
countenance  nothing  but  perfection.  Jn  her  they 
see  the  embodied  form  of  the  universal  and  diffu 
sive  truth,  and  they  claim  for  her  the  possession  of 
a  perfect  beauty.  But  to  me  all  the  sweet  convic 
tion,  which  makes  the  heart  confident  in  its  hope, 
and  brings  it  peace,  seems  utterly  denied.  To 
me  she  does  not  seem  the  true  ;  neither,  though  she 
is  beautiful,  can  I  esteem  her  the  perfect  beauty 
which  so  immutable  a  goddess  should  be.  She 
wins  not  my  heart  when  I  behold  her,  —  her  charms 
gather  only  upon  mine  eyes.  With  reluctant 
hand  I  lay  the  first  fruits  upon  her  altars  even  as 
I  am  bidden,  but  she  knows  that  it  is  only  as  I  am 
bidden  that  I  bring  them,  and  though  she  smiles 
upon  others,  she,  methinks,  hath  a  frown  only  and 
ever  for  me.  I  pray  to  her  for  the  blessing,  and 
she  withholds  it ;  yet  wherefore  should  she  with 
hold  it  when  I  pray  only  to  be  wise.  Alas  !  I 
inquire  of  these  things  in  vain.  The  mists  gather 
more  thickly  around  me,  and  when  my  brethren 
cry  loudest  in  rejoicing  for  the  light  which  as- 
ceadeth,  then,  upon  my  sight,  the  darkness  falls 
more  heavily  than  ever.  My  soul  is  sorrowful 
within  me.  The  prayer  that  I  make  returns  upon 
9* 


102  IPSISTOS; 

me  with  the  bitterness  of  rejection.  Wherefore 
should  this  be  so  ?  Wherefore,  of  all  this  multi 
tude,  should  I,  alone,  be  joyless  and  voiceless  ? 
My  brothers — they  come  back  from  the  temple, 
having  the  song  still  upon  their  lips,  and  the  smile 
still  in  their  hearts.  My  sisters  enter  with  laugh 
ter  the  dwelling  of  my  father,  though  poverty  sits 
upon  the  hearth,  and  weeps  because  of  the  cold. 
The  smile  of  the  goddess  hath  blessed  them,  until 
they  forget  the  withered  and  wrinkled  grandsire 
whom  they  leave  famishing  at  home.  Alas  !  for 
me,  when  I  see  the  burnt  offerings  and  the  fruits 
upon  the  altars  of  the  goddess,  I  think  not  upon 
her  worship,  but  upon  his  want.  Wherefore 
should  the  goddess  need  as  a  testimony  of  our 
homage  the  waste  of  her  own  fruits,  which  had 
else  cheered  the  heart  and  strengthened  the  limbs 
of  age  and  poverty.  Wherefore  —  ah  !" 

A  terrible  voice  sounded  in  the  ears  of  the 
youth  : 

"Ipsistos!"' 

He  shivered  with  terror  as  he  looked  up.  The 
car  of  the  goddess  was  rolling  onwards,  and  her 
eye  was  fixed  upon  him  with  a  glance  that  seemed 
to  search  and  freeze  his  soul.  The  voice  of  the 
chief  priest,  a  second  time,  reached  his  ears  in  low 
accents,  unheard  by  any  but  the  youth. 


IPSISTOS.  103 

"  Ipsistos !  The  eye  of  the  goddess  is  upon 
thee.  She  looks  into  thy  heart.  She  beholds  thy 
discontent.  Beware  !" 

The  youth  sank  upon  his  kneesr  and  clasping 
his  hands  above  his  head,  he  bowed  his  face  to  the 
diist  while  the  car  passed  onwards. 

"Alas!"  moaned  the  stricken  youth  as  the 
crowd  rolled  between  him  and  the  priest,  "  I  am 
doomed  !" 

And  there  he  lay  prostrate  and  desponding, 
while  the  elated  crowd,  forgetting  all  wretched 
ness  of  their  brother,  felt  only  the  triumph  of  that 
power  which  permitted  them  to  kneel ! 


m. 


"Ipsistos!"  said  the  sacred  messenger  of  the 
temple,  touching  the  melancholy  youth  with  the 
spiral  rod  of  his  office,  — "  thou  art  called." 

"  Whither  ?"  demanded  the  youth. 

"•To  the  temple  !"  was  the  answer  of  authority. 

"  I  obey !  — I  follow  thee !"  said  the  youth,  with 
fear  and  trembling. 

"  It  is  well.     Bermahdi  awaits  thee." 

And  Ipsistos  prepared  to  follow  as  he  was  com 
manded,  and  his  heart  was  full  of  fears  ;  for  had  he 


104  IPSISTOS. 

not  heard  from  Bermahdi  that  the  goddess  was  a 
jealous  goddess  —  quick  to  see  the  falling  off  of 
the  worshipper  at  her  altars,  and  terrible  in  her 
punishments  for  every  departure  from  the  law  as 
it  is  written. 

"  Fare  thee  well,  my  father,"  cried  the  youth, 
—  "I  am  commanded  to  leave  thee  for  awhile." 

"  Who  commands  thee,  my  son  ?"  said  the  ven 
erable  man. 

"  Bermahdi." 

"Ha.!  —  Thou  hast  sinned,  my  son.  Thou 
hast  sinned  against  the  goddess." 

"I  fear  me." 

And  the  old  man  trembled,  and  fell  upon  his 
face,  as  the  favorite  of  his  eyes  departed. 


IV. 


Ipsistos  stood  in  the  presence  of  Bermahdi,  the 
white-bearded,  and  his  heart  sank  within  him. 
Wondrous  was  the  chamber  in  which  he  stood, — 
strange  were  all  the  objects  and  aspects  around 
him.  The  roof  of  that  chamber  was  vaulted  like 
the  sky,  and  studded  with  a  thousand  stars.  Clouds 
hung  aloft,  now  rising  and  now  receding,  and 
from  them,  at  moments,  Ipsistos  could  see  the  keen 


IPSISTOS.  105 

and  cold  eye  of  the  goddess  looking  down  upon 
him.  The  vault  was  upborne  by  gigantic  figures 
of  black  martle,  that  moved  around  him  in  a  con 
stant  circle  ;  and,  ever  and  anon,  a  heavy  instru 
ment  of  sounding  metal  told  the  progress  of  the 
never  stopping  hours.  A  burning  mirror  stood 
upright  against  the  wall,  and  Ipsistos  beheld  with 
in  it  the  constant  progress  of  things  as  they  con 
cerned  the  people  of  the  goddess.  And  he  saw 
himself  within  it,  even  he,  Ipsistos,  but  the  figure 
paused  not,  but  disappeared  at  the  waving  of  the 
hand  of  Bermahdi.  The  chief  priest  sat  before  a 
table  of  red  porphyry,  on  which  the  characters  and 
signs  of  the  seasons  were  inscribed.  Instruments 
of  strange  form,  and  to  him,  unknown  uses,  lay 
upon  the  table.  Bermahdi  was  a  magician  of 
unbounded  wisdom,  and  his  studies  were  as  vari 
ous  as  the  faces  of  the  stars  of  heaven.  He  seemed, 
even  then,  to  be  toiling  in  the  divine  arts  of  astro 
logy  ;  and  when  Ipsistos  regarded  his  stern  but 
venerable  aspect,  and  saw  the  strange  instruments 
around  him,  and  beheld  the  books  in  languages 
unknown,  gathered  with  great  pains  and  at  won 
drous  cost  from  the  remotest  nations,  —  his  awe, 
mingling  with  the  apprehensions  which  his  soul 
felt  at  the  summons  of  the  sacred  messenger,  be- 


106  IPSISTOS. 

came  a  sort  of  terror,  and  he  trembled  in  the  pre 
sence  of  the  holy  man. 

"  Ipsistos  !"   said  Bermahdi,  "  approach  !" 

And  as  the  youth  drew  nigh  to  the  table  an 
hundred  serpents  sprang  forward,  with  hissing  fury 
and  open  jaws,  ready  to  devour  the  intruder;  but, 
at  the  word  of  Bermahdi,  they  crawled  back  to 
the  slimy  baskets  where  they  had  lain  coiled  in 
sleep,  and  offered  no  farther  interruption  to  his  ap 
proach. 

"  Ipsistos  !  thou  had'st  been  doomed  but  for 
thy  youth.  Thou  art  poor  and  feeble,  else  thou 
had'st  perished.  Had'st  thou  been  high  among 
the  people,  —  high  of  birth  and  fortune,  —  this 
night  thou  had'st  fed  the  sacred  serpents  of  the 
goddess,  whom,  in  thy  secret  thoughts,  thou  hast 
contemned.  Wherefore  is  this  madness,  Ipsistos  ? 
Thy  brothers  are  devout  worshippers,  —  they  come 
with  glad  hearts  and  full  hands  to  the  temple,  — 
they  bend  with  reverence  before  the  altar,  —  they 
heed  the  words  of  the  goddess,  and  question  not 
her  laws.  But  thou  dost  not,  Ipsistos.  In  thy  vain 
soul  thou  hast  asked  — t  why  is  this  ?'  With  thy 
shallow  understanding,  thou  wouldst  judge  the 
decrees  which  are  written  for  the  world.  Why 
dost  thou  not  believe,  and  trust,  and  do  homage 
like  thy  brothers  ?" 

"Alas!    father!    wherefore?    It  is  from  thee 


IPSISTOS.  107 

that  I  would  have  the  answer.  Thou  art  the 
favored  of  the  goddess,  —  I  pray  thee  implore 
her  that  she  tell  me,  why  I  am  other  in  spirit  than 
my  brothers  ?" 

The  holy  man  frowned  gloomily  as  he  listened 
to  these  words  of  the  unhappy  youth. 

"  What,  boy  !  —  wouldst  thou  demand  of  the 
goddess,  why  is  this,  and  wherefore  is  that.  I  tell 
thee  that  thy  presumption  prays  a  sudden  judg 
ment  upon  thee.  Thy  vain  thoughts  are  working 
out  thy  doom." 

"  Be  merciful,  father.  I  would  not  offend  with 
my  presumption.  I  would  school  my  heart  unto 
humility.  It  is  to  know  the  right  only  that  1  ask 
to  know  at  all.  My  prayer  is  for  wisdom  only." 

"Thy  prayer  is  insolent,  boy.  What!  shall 
we  be  all  Magi.  Shall  wisdom  be  a  thing  to  cast 
in  equal  lots,  —  shall  we  demand  of  the  goddess 
to  be  other  than  we  are.  Foolish  and  audacious 
boy.  Thou  must  learn  to  obey,  ere  thou  art  wise  — 
to  trust  those  who  are  the  born  counsellors  of  the 
land,  — who  have  authority  for  judgment  from  the 
goddess.  Hast  thou  lived  so  long,  and  art  thou 
still  ignorant  of  her  power?  Hast  thou  seen  noth 
ing  to  shew  to  thee  the  might  which  she  has,  be 
yond  that  of  thee  and  all  thy  people,  and  which 
she  puts  forth  daily  through  the  hands  of  those 
who  tend  upon  her  altars  ?  Hast  thou  not  listened 


108  IPSISTOS. 

to  her  oracles  ?  Does  she  not  foretell  the  plague 
which  kills,  the  tempest  which  desolates,  the  ruler 
of  the  city  who  shall  best  serve  its  interests,  the 
coming  of  the  enemy  whom  ye  fear  ?  Does  not 
her  power  dissipate  the  enemy,  stay  the  plague, 
repair  the  city,  provide  the  ruler  ?  Is  thy  people 
prosperous  or  not  ?" 

"  Alas!  father,  poverty  sits  upon  the  hearth  of 
my  sire,  and  the  flesh  is  shrivelled  upon  his  aged 
limhs.  The  city  is  prosperous,  but  my  father 
lacks  bread  for  his  hunger,  and  he  hath  no  raiment 
against  the  cold." 

"  And  what  of  this,  idle  boy.  What  is  the 
pleasure  or  the  life  of  one,  or  even  of  a  thousand, 
in  consideration  of  this  great  argument.  Thy  life 
is  but  a  span  at  best,  and  something  must  end  it. 
The  goddess  that  gives  thee  life,  hath  surely  a 
right  to  prescribe  its  laws,  its  limits,  and  its  vicissi 
tudes.  Believe  this,  and  thy  father  suffers  little  ; 
but  even  this  pretence  shall  be  denied  thee  l(  r 
complaint.  Thou  shalt  carry  from  the-temple  this 
night  the  food  which  shall  make  him  strong,  and 
the  garments  which  shall  bring  the  blood  back 
into  his  aged  limbs.  Will  that  content  thee  f" 

"  I  will  bless  thee  for  it,  father." 

"  And  be  true  and  joyful  in  thy  worship  of  the 
goddess  f" 


IPSISTOS.  109 

"  I  will  strive — with  all  my  soul  and  with  all  my 
strength,  I  will  strive,"  replied  Ipsistos. 

"  Thou  shalt,  or  it  shall  be  worse  for  thee.  Lo  ! 
—  Here  shalt  thou  see  the  power  of  the  goddess. 
Thou  shalt  behold  sights  never  yet  vouchsafed  to 
thy  people.  Look  !  What  seest  thou  ?" 

And,  as  he  spake,  the  magician  uttered  a  word 
of  power,  and  the  brooding  cloud  rolled  away 
from  overhead,  and  the  sun  hung  his  broad  and 
burning  shield  above  the  eyes  of  Ipsistos,  though, 
it  was  then  the  mid  hour  of  the  night,  so  that  they 
were  confounded  and  darkened  by  the  blaze.  And 
when  he  looked  again,  the  cold  pale  moon  was 
shining  in  its  place. 

"  Thou  hast  seen  the  mansions  of  the  sun  and 
moon,  —  they  are  ever  present  to  the  goddess,  and 
visible  at  her  command.  Some  of  her  power  she 
will  now  confer,  even  upon  thee,  that  thou  may'st 
no  longer  doubt  of  her  worship.  Grasp  me  that 
wand  of  ebony  which  thou  seest  upon  the  edge  of 
yon  fountain." 

The  youth  did  so,  and  of  a  sudden  it  became  a 
serpent  in  his  grasp.  He  flung  it  to  the  ground, 
and  it  once  more  became  a  wand  of  ebony. 

"  Thou  seest ;  but  that  is  not  all.  Thou  shalt 
cross  unharmed  upon  those  fiery  bars  over  which 
it  is  written  that  every  devotee  should  go.  But 

VOL.  i.  10 


110  IPSISTOS. 

first  put  off  thy  sandals,  and  put  on  these  sacred 
shoes  which  have  been  hallowed  upon  the  altar  of 
the  goddess." 

The  youth  put  on  the  shoes  as  he  was  directed, 
and  at  the  same  instant  a  part  of  the  wall  opened 
before  him,  and  he  beheld  a  bridge  of  fire-bars 
which  spanned  a  cavernous  hollow  of  vast  extent, 
in  which  he  could  see  nothing,  but  from  which 
there  came  a  continual  roaring  like  the  evening 
anthem  of  the  sea.  The  youth  shrank  back  from 
the  trial,  but  JBermahdi  encouraged  him. 

"  Fear  nothing !"  he  said,  —  "  For  thou  wearest 
sandals  which  have  been  .hallowed  by  the  god 
dess."  A  voice,  soft, but  clear,  sad  but  melodious, 
reached  his  ears  an  instant*  after,  which  repeated 
the  words  of  encouragement. 

"  Fear  nothing,  Ipsistos.  There  is  nought  to 
harm  thee !" 

"  What  voice  is  that!"  cried  Bermahdi,  with 
looks  of  unfeigned  astonishment. 

"Was  it  not  the  voice  of  the  goddess?"  said 
Ipsistos, —  "  methought  it  was  she  who  spoke." 

"Ay,  it  was,  —  it  must  have  been!"  cried 
Bermahdi,  —  "  it  must  have  been  the  goddess. 
Thou  seest,  my  son,  that  she  loves  thee.  Fear 
nothing." 


IPSISTOS.  Ill 

"Fear  nothing,  Ipsistos,"  said  the  gentle  voice 
once  more. 

And  the  heart  of  Ipsistos  was  full  of  joy  as  he 
heard  it,  but  the  countenance  of  Bermahdi  was 
troubled.  The  youth  felt  tears  of  pleasure  steal 
out  upon  his  cheek,  for  the  tones  of  that  sweet 
speaker  sunk  like  music  and  peace  into  his  heart. 
He  feared  no  longer,  Boldly  he  advanced  upon 
the  blazing  bars,  which,  to  his  great  wonder,  gave 
out  no  heat.  And  when  he  had  passed  over  the 
bridge  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  cavern,  he  stood 
in  the  presence  of  the  goddess.  But  her  looks 
were  lovely  no  longer.  Anger  blazed  in  her  eyes, 
and  her  lips  were  distorted  by  reason  of  the  pas 
sion  within  her  breast. 

"  This  is  strange,"  said  Bermahdi,  —  "  strange 
that  she  should  frown  upon  thee,  Ipsistos,  when 
thou  hast  passed  through  the  first  trial  of  the  novi 
ciate.  Thou  wilt  become  a  noviciate,  my  son." 

"  Wherefore,  father  ?" 

"  See'st  thoti  not  that  she  frowns  upon  thee  ?" 

The  youth  was  silent. 

"  Ha!  dost  thou  refuse?"  cried  Bermahdi. 

"  No,  no  — I  refuse  not  —  but  suffer  me  to  think 
upon  it,  my  father.  I  am  not  yet  worthy  —  I 
would  meditate  upon  the  wonders  I  have  seen." 

"  Thou  shalt!     Go  now  in  safety.     The  path 


112  IPSISTOS. 

is  clear.  Nothing  shall  harm  thee  on  thy  way. 
But  see  that  thou  hast  early  thought  upon  this,  my 
son.  Thou  hast  thought,  already,  too  much  or  too 
little,  and  thy  error  must  be  amended.  Remem 
ber  !  the  eyes  of  the  goddess  are  upon  thee." 

Again  the  gentle  voice  whispered  in  his  ears. 

"  Fear  nothing,  Ipsistos ;"  and  when  he  looked 
upon  the  statue  of  the  goddess,  her  features  were 
convulsed  with  anger.  A  stream  of  fire  seemed 
to  issue  from  her  eyes,  and  with  a  shivering  fear 
that  ran  through  all  his  veins  like  a  sudden  ague, 
the  youth  fled  from  her  terrific  presence. 


V. 


He  fled,  but  the  gentle  voice  still  lingered  in  his 
ears,  and  as  he  left  the  portals  of  the  temple,  its 
tones  of  encouragement  were  repeated. 

"  Fear  nothing,  Ipsistos.  I  am  she  whom  in  thy 
secret  soul  thou  lovest ;  and  I  am  powerful  to  pro 
tect  thee.  Let  the  tyrant  rage  ;  he  shall  not  pre 
vail  against  thy  thought,  nor  against  the  true  wor 
ship  which  is  already  living  in  thy  spirit.  He  may 
cast  thee  into  a  dungeon  —  he  may  load  thee  with 
chains — in  his  brute  anger  he  may  buffet  thee, 
and  with  his  keen  thong  he  may  cover  thee  with 


IPSISTOS.  113 

stripes  ;  but  of  a  surety  shalt  thou  live  through 
all,  and  glorious  shall  be  thy  triumph  in  the  end. 
Fear  nothing,  Ipsistos — for,  so  long  as  thou  keep- 
est  my  voice  in  thy  ears,  so  long  shalt  thou  live, 
and  so  sure  shall  be  thy  great  victory  over  thy 
enemy.  Thou  shalt  tread  upon  his  neck,  Ip 
sistos." 

And  the  youth  grew  bold  to  speak  to  the  voice 
as  he  hearkened  to  these  grateful  words,  and  he 
said  — 

"And  how,  oh,  sweetest  whisper  of  the  night — 
thou  that  stealest  upon  mine  ear  like  a  music  from 
heaven,  and  sinkest,  blessing,  into  my  heart  like  a 
balmy  food  thereof ;  —  how  am  I  to  keep  thee  for 
ever  nigh  to  me  ?  Tell  me,  that  I  may  not  lose 
thee." 

"  By  keeping  me  ever  in  thy  heart,  as  thou  dost 
now.  By  seeking  me  as  thou  hast  ever  done !" 

"How!  blessed  voice  —  have  I  ever  sought 
thee  before,  when,  until  this  hour,  mine  ears  re 
member  not  to  have  heard  thee." 

"  Thine  ear  hath  not  heard  me,  Ipsistos,  but  day 
and  night,  even  from  the  hour  of  thy  birth,  have  I 
spoken  to  thy  heart.  Thou  hast  truly  called  me  a 
music  from  heaven,  and  a  balmy  food  thereof.  I 
am  both — for  I  am  that  principle  without  which 
10* 


114  IPS1STOS. 

no  music  could  be  such  in  the  ears  of  the  good, 
and  no  food  could  give  nourishment." 

"  What  art  thou !"  demanded  the  trembling 
youth* 

"  Truth  !  Doth  not  thy  own  heart  teach 
thee  ?"  was  the  answer. 

"  Alas  —  but  it  did  not !"  replied  Ipsistos. 

"  Of  a  surety  it  did,  Ipsistos,  from  the  first  mo 
ment  when  thou  felt'st  that  thou  could'st  not  love 
the  creature  which  thy  people  worship  with  a  wild 
and  headlong  idolatry.  Thou  could'st  not  think 
her  beautiful,  because,  in  thy  own  heart,  thou 
beheld' st  a  yet  lovelier  image." 

"  And  shall  I  see  thee  with  mine  eyes,  oh,  thou> 
whom  my  soul  worships,"  cried  the  youth,  sink 
ing  on  his  knees,  and  lifting  his  hands  together,  as 
if  the  object  of  his  adoration  stood  even  then  un 
veiled  before  him. 

"  Yea,  thou  mayst  if  thou  so  wishest  it;  but  I 
warn  thee,  Ipsistos,  in  the  hour  that  thou  regard- 
est  me  with  thy  human  eyes  —  in  that  hour  shalt 
thou  surely  die.  Art  thou  ready  ?" 

Prostrate  in  the  dim  night,  the  youth  sunk  down 

in  silence.     But  in  silence  he  remained  not  long. 

"  Give  me  to  behold  thee,"  he  cried  aloud  to 

the  voice — "Give  me  to  look  upon  the  blessed 

and  beautiful  features  of  that  divine  being  who  is 


IPSISTOS.  115 

in  my  lifted  heart,  and  death  shall  be  welcome. 
Gladly  will  I  embrace  it,  for  thy  sake,  sweetest  and 
loveliest  of  the  dreams  that  have  won  me  from 
sleep,  and  made  life,  itself,  a  dream." 

w  Thou  art  bold,  now,  Ipsistos  ;  but  when  death 
looks  upon  thee  with  his  grim  aspect,  and  claims 
thee  for  his  own  —  " 

"  Even  then  will  I  be  bold  !"•  cried  the  undaunt 
ed  youth. 

"  When  thou  feel'st  his  steely  grasp  upon  thy 
shoulder  !" 

"I  will  laugh  upon  him — I  will  defy  him  with 
a  song  in  thy  praise." 

"  When  he  drags  thee  to  the  roaring  blaze,  and 
the  burning  fagots  crackle  and  hiss  around 
thee!—"  • 

"•Ha  !  — must  it,  then,  be  so!"  cried  the  youth, 
shuddering,  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 
"  Perhaps  !"  said  the  voice.  "  Wilt  thou  not 
then  shrink  from  thy  faith  ?  Wilt  thou  not  then 
forswear  mef  Wilt  thou  not  deny  that  thou 
hast  seen  my  face,  and  hearkened  to  my  counsel, 
as  thou  dost  now  ?  Death  is  terrible,  Ipsistos  !" 

"  I  will  not !  Though  death  be  terrible,  I  will 
not  shrink  from  the  danger  —  I  will  not  deny  thee, 
nor  forget  the  faith  which  I  have  pledged  thee,  and 
which  I  pledge  thee  here*" 


116  IPSISTOS. 

"  And  yet  'twere  pity,  Ipsistos,  that  thy  youth 
should  perish  thus.  Think  of  thy  old  grandsire." 

"  Ah  !" 

"  Thy  brothers  and  thy  sisters." 

"  Alas  !  they  need  me  not.  Did  they  love  me, 
and  need  me  more,  I  were  less  bold,  perchance,  in 
this  encounter.  My  grandsire  hath  not  many  days 
of  life,  and  even  were  I  gone  from  him,  but  little 
were  his  loss  therein.  The  promise  which  thou 
makest  me,  moves  me  more  than  these  fears  and 
losses  which  thou  describest  unto  me.  Give  me  to 
look  upon  thy  divine  presence,  and  see  the  beau 
ties  which  are  there,  and  I  am  ready  for  the  stake, 
and  for  the  cruel  executioner.  Tell  me,  shall  I 
not  behold  thee  now  ?" 

"  Not  yet !"  cried  the  voice.  "  Thou  could'st 
not  see  me  now,  even  if  thou  would'st,  and  I  were 
willing  to  suffer  thee.  There  are  scales  upon  thine 
eyes,  which  must  first  fall  off.  There  is  yet  a  fet 
ter  upon  thy  thought  which  must  be  broken  ;  and 
thou  hast  learned  lessons  in  thy  mind,  which  must 
be  unlearned,  ere  thou  can'st  behold  me.  Yet 
shall  I  not  be  utterly  unseen  of  thee.  Even  now, 
if  thou  lookest  keenly,  thou  may'st  behold  a  faint 
shadow  of  my  person  beside  thee,  and,  as  thou 
strivest  to  behold  me  and  hearkenest  to  my  voice, 
my  features  shall  grow  clear  unto  thine  eyes,  — thy 


IPSISTOS.  117 

flesh  to  my  touch, —  thy  soul  shall  be  filled  with 
my  spirit.  But  I  warn  thee,  in  that  time  thou 
diest.  Thy  danger  begins  with  thy  knowledge, 
and  in  the  moment  of  thy  greatest  victory,  shalt 
thou  perish." 

And  the  youth  gazed  as  he  was  bidden,  and  a 
shadowy  form  passed  beside  him,  and  the  stars 
yielded  in  their  places,  and  all  things  swam  be 
fore  his  sense.  When  he  looked  again,  the  shadow 
and  the  voice  were  gone. 


VI. 


"  I  bring  thee  food,  my  father,"  said  Ipsistos; 
and  he  placed  before  the  aged  man  the  viands 
which  had  been  given  him  by  the  high  priest  of 
the  temple. 

"Ha!  my  son,  —  be  thou  blessed  among  the 
sons  of  men,  as  thou  art  blest  and  beloved  by  thy 
sire.  Whence  got'st  thou  these  meats  —  this 
bread,  and  the  luscious  grapes  which  thou  puttest 
before  me." 

"  From  Bermahdi." 

"  From  Bermahdi !  — Blessed  be  Bermahdi  — 
blessed  be  the  holy  temple  —  forever  honored 
the  goddess  therein," 


118  IPSISTOS. 

And  the  aged  man  kneeled  as  he  said  these 
words,  and  the  young  women  and  the  sons  kneeled 
also,  all  but  Ipsistos. 

"How,  my  son,  — wherefore  kneelest  thou  not 
with  us? — would'st  thou  withhold  thy  blessings 
and  thy  thanks  ?" 

"  My  thanks  have  been  already  given,  my  fa 
ther.  I  have  spoken  with  Bermahdi  in  the  tem 
ple." 

"  In  the  temple  !  —  Ha  !  have  I  been  so  bless 
ed  in  my  old  age  as  to  behold  a  son  of  mine  who 
hath  had  admittance  to  the  temple  of  the  goddess. 
Let  me  look  upon  thee,  —  let  me  kneel  to  thee,  my 
son,  for  of  a  truth  the  goddess  hath  greatly  fa 
vored  thee." 

"  Kneel  riot  to  me,  — look  not  upon  me,  father, 
but  eat  of  the  meats  sent  thee  by  Bermahdi.  I 
am  blind,  and  weak,  and  not  worthy  of  thy  regard." 

"  But  thou  saw'st  the  wondrous  things  of  the 
temple,  my  son,  —  the  giants  which  are  there  fet 
tered  beneath  the  feet  of  the  goddess,  —  the  sa 
cred  serpent  that  speaks  at  her  bidding,  —  the  holy 
owl  of  counsel,  and  the  ape,  the  ox,  the  emer 
alds—" 

"  I  saw  many  things,  my  father,  of  which  I 
took  little  heed." 

"Little  heed,  my  son, — little   heed!    What 


IPSiSTOS.  119 

meanest  thou  ?  Thou  took'st  little  heed  of  what 
thou  saw'st  in  the  temple !  What !  thou  wast 
frightened ;  the  wonders  overcame  thee  ?  Thou 
wert  blinded  and  astonished  by  the  blaze.  It  was 
enough,  my  son,  to  confound  thee.  It  is  my 
wonder  how  thou  saw'st  any  thing,  —  how  thou 
cam'st  alive  from  that  glorious  presence.  But  the 
goddess  strengthens  whom  she  loves,  and  by  these 
tokens,  Ipsistos,  thou  art  beloved  of  the  goddess. 
Grant  it  be  so,  —  grant  it  be,  —  then  would  my 
gray  hairs  go  down  to  the  grave  in  peace." 

But  far  other  was  the  prayer  in  the  heart  of  Ip 
sistos,  and  he  turned  away  in  silence  from  the  ad 
miring  gaze  which  the  doting  old  man  fixed  upon 
him.  And  the  brothers  and  sisters  murmured 
among  themselves,  and  marvelled  much  at  the 
favor  of  the  goddess  towards  Ipsistos.  And  they 
said,  "  Wherefore  is  this  favor  of  Bermahdi  ? 
Have  we  not  been  the  first  ever  to  bring  our  offer 
ings  to  the  temple  ?  Though  they  were  mean,  yet 
we  brought  of  the  best  in  our  store ;  and  our  pray 
ers  and  songs  were  the  loudest  in  the  presence  of 
the  goddess.  And  was  not  Ipsistos  a  loiterer  by 
the  way-side,  and  when  did  he  raise  voice  or  song 
in  honor  of  the  temple  ?  The  goddess  hath  surely 
meant,  for  one  of  us,  the  favor  which  Bermahdi 
hath  so  blindly  bestowed  on  him." 


120  IPSISTOS. 

"  And  what  said  Bermabdi  to  thee,  my  son  ?" 
demanded  the  grandsire. 

"  He  would  have  me  in  the  service  of  the  god 
dess,"  replied  Ipsistos. 

"Ha!  thou  dost  not  say  it !"  cried  the  rejoi 
cing  father. 

"  He !  a  servant  in  the  temple  !"  cried  the  eld 
est  of  the  brothers.  —  "Ha!  ha!  ha!  This  is 
a  folly,  if  not  worse.  Thou  speak'st  idly,  Ipsis 
tos,  —  I  trust  thou  dost  not  wilfully  declare  thy 
falsehood." 

"  I  speak  the  truth  only,  my  brother/'  meekly 
replied  Ipsistos. 

"  I  will  not  believe  it,"  cried  the  rest.  — 
"  Wherefore  should  they  make  thee  a  servant  in 
the  temple.  What  hast  thou,  —  what  art  thou  f 
Thou  art  mad,  Ipsistos.  Thou  art  poor,  and  what 
is  thy  father  ?  Made  he  not  bricks  for  the  city, 
even  for  those  who  are  now  living  and  can  declare 
his  craft ;  and  what  is  thy  craft,  but  the  same,  Ip 
sistos,  which  thou  art  only  too  idle  to  follow." 

"  True,  true,  Ipsistos,  —  thou  must  surely  err  in 
this,"  cried  the  old  man,  sorrowfully.  —  "Where 
fore  should  Bermahdi  choose  thee  to  serve  in  the 
temple.  Thy  brothers  speak  but  reason; — and 
yet,  my  children,  Ipsistos  hath  never  yet  told  me 
other  than  the  truth." 


IPSISTOS.  121 

"  And  it  is  the  truth  only  which  I  tell  thee  now, 
my  father.  Bermahdi  hath  commanded  me  to 
serve  in  the  temple,  in  season  to  become  a  priest." 

"A  priest!"  cried  the  elder  brother  in  amaze 
ment, 

"  A  priest !"  cried  they  all,  in  wonder  at  the 
apparent  madness  or  gross  presumption  of  the 
youth. 

"Thou  a  priest!"  said  the  elder  brother. — 
"  What  should  make  thee  a  priest,  when  thy 
awkward  hands  let  fall  the  garlands  ere  they  reach 
the  altar." 

"Thou  a  priest!"  exclaimed  the  eldest  sister. 
—  "  How  would  thy  long  arms  look  in  the  holy 
garments  ?  — they  would  drag  about  thy  heels  like 
a  great  mill-sack." 

"  Only  to  think,"  said  the  younger  sister,  the 
favorite  of  Ipsistos,  "  only  to  think  of  making 
thee  a  priest,  Ipsistos,  when  I  have  ridden  upon 
thy  shoulders  a  thousand  times." 

"Nay,  flout  not  thy  brother,  my  children  —  ye 
make  me  sad  as  I  behold  his  sorrows.  Flout  him 
not,  though,  in  truth,  my  son,  thy  story  is  most 
strange." 

"  Yet  true,  my  father.  Do  not  these  fruits  speak 
for  me  .?  They  are  from  the  altar  of  the  temple." 

This  could  not  be  denied.     The  brothers  and 

VOL.  i.  11 


; 

122  IPSISTOS. 

sisters  of  the  youth  had  seen  them  carried  to  the 
temple.  And  the  old  man  marvelled  much  upon 
the  mystery;  he  could  not  yet  be  satisfied  of  his 
son's  truth,  for  when  had  the  son  of  a  maker  of 
brick,  been  called  to  such  sacred  office.  Mean 
while,  a  grievous  suspicion  of  Ipsistos  grew  in 
the  hearts  of  his  brethren.  And  they  whispered 
among  themselves,  and  their  evil  thought  came  to 
the  ears  of  the  father. 

"  He  hath  stolen  these  things  from  the  altar  of 
the  goddess.  Of  a  truth  he  hath  committed  sacri- 
lege." 

And  with  these  words  the  aged  man  dashed 
from  his  lips  the  untasted  viands,  and  his  jaws 
were  distended  with  the  horror  of  the  thought. 

"  What  hast  thou  done,  Ipsistos  ?  My  son,  my 
best  beloved,  wherefore  hast  thou  done  this 
thing  ?" 

"  They  wrong  me,  my  father,  for,  of  a  truth,  I 
am  not  guilty  of  this  base  crime.  The  fruits 
were  given  to  me,  for  thee,  by  the  hands  of  Ber- 
mahdi." 

"  Swear  it,  by  the  temple  and  the  goddess ! 
and  I  will  believe  thee,"  said  the  father. 

"  It  will  not  then  be  a  greater  truth  than  it  is 
now,  my  father.  Believe  me,  as  I  tell  thee,  but  I 


IPSISTOS.  123 

will  not  swear ;"  and  he  rushed  from  the  dwell 
ing  as  he  spoke  these  words. 

"  He  is  guilty !"  cried  the  brothers  with  joy, 
but  the  old  man  hung  his  head  in  shame. 

"  Alas !"  he  cried,  "  wherefore  was  I  born  to 
this  dishonor." 

And  the  sons  hurried  away  to  the  chief  priest, 
to  declare  the  theft  and  to  restore  the  consecrated 
fruits  ;  but  the  old  man  lay  upon  his  face  at  the 
door  of  his  habitation,  and  would  not  be  com 
forted. 


VII. 

"  And  ye  say,"  said  Bermahdi,  to  the  brethren 
of  Ipsistos,  "  ye  say  that  your  brother  is  no  true 
servant  of  the  goddess  —  that  he  bows  not  in  re 
verence  at  her  altars  —  that  he  gives  not  his  soul 
with  the  fruits  which  he  offers  — that  he  loves  not 
her  high  places,  nor  the  holy  priesthood  that  min 
ister  before  her  ?" 

"  Of  a  truth,  we  say  it,"  replied  the  envious 
brethren. 

"Ye  are  wrong,"  answered  to  them  the  high 
priest,  "  ye  know  not  the  heart  of  your  brother. 


124  IPSISTOS. 

What  though  he  worship  in  another  fashion  from 
ye,  still  is  he  a  devout  worshipper.  I  have  seen 
into  his  soul,  my  children  ;  it  is  no  less  pure  than 
yours.  The  goddess  hath  chosen  him  for  her  al 
tars,  and  ye  are  no  less  honored  in  her  choice  than 
is  he.  Hence  was  her  gift  to  him,  for  thy  grand- 
sire,  of  the  fruits  and  meats  which  he  carried  home 
to  your  habitation.  Do  him  no  injustice,  there 
fore,  by  your  ungentle  thoughts,  for  truly  do  I  be 
lieve  him  honest.  Yet,  I  would  not,  that  ye  should 
hold  me  unnoteful  of  your  zeal.  Ye  shall  give  it 
employment.  See  that  Ipsistos  lacks  not,  nor  falls 
short,  in  his  flow  of  service.  If  ye  deem  him  lag 
gard  —  if  ye  notice  any  falling  off  in  his  outward 
devotions,  though  it  may  import  no  loss  of  love 
within — yet  bring  me  true  report  of  his  backslid- 
ings,  that  I  may  counsel  him  providently,  and  tu 
tor  him  unto  the  good  work  which  is  ready  for  his 
hands.  And,  as  ye  have  so  fully  shown  your  zeal 
for  the  altars  of  the  goddess,  ye  shall  have  like 
share  with  your  brother  of  the  fruits  therefrom. 
Take  ye,  and  eat,  and  bear  ye  home  to  your 
grandsire,  of  the  fruits  which  remain  unconsumed. 
And  let  this  be  a  sign  unto  ye,  that  ye  are  all  the 
care  of  the  goddess,  and  your  house  henceforward 
shall  be  the  abiding  place  of  blessing  and  abun 
dance.  Go  ye  now — remember  well  what  I  have 


IPSISTOS.  325 

spoken  in  your  ears  touching  the  devotion  of  Ip- 
sistos,  and  come  to  me  and  reveal  in  secret  what 
ye  may  misdeem  of  his  thoughts  and  misdoing  ; 
for  though  I  believe  not  that  your  brother  is  err 
ing,  yet  the  best  of  us  falter  in  our  walks  of  duty, 
and  the  strongest  sink  at  times  under  a  weakness 
of  sinew  which  should  make  them  sorrowful  and 
ashamed.  Go  now,  and  the  blessing  of  the  god 
dess  be  upon  ye." 

And  the  brethren  of  Ipsistos  went  away,  with 
hearts  of  rejoicing  and  with  hands  of  plenty  ;  and 
they  rejoiced  not  more  because  of  the  favor  of  the 
goddess  than  of  the  charge  which  had  been  given 
them  to  be  watchful  of  the  doings  of  their  brother. 
And  in  their  hearts  they  abused  the  counsels  of 
the  holy  Bermahdi,  for,  whereas,  he  had  given  it 
in  charge  to  them  to  report  on  the  backslidings  of 
Ipsistos  that  he  might  be  providently  led  back  into 
the  fold  of  the  temple,  and  they  took  his  words  as 
a  direction  to  find  evil  in  his  wanderings,  and  to 
prove  the  flaws  in  all  his  performances.  And 
those  that  Bermahdi  had  named  as  zealous  for  the 
goddess,  grew  to  be  zealous  spies  upon  the  failings 
of  their  brother ;  and  in  their  hearts  they  said  — 

"  Bermahdi  will  punish  Ipsistos  if  he  goes  aside 

from  the  path  leading  to  the  temple.     He  mean  s 
11* 


126  IPSISTOS. 

not  to  counsel  but  to  condemn,  for  is  not  the  god 
dess  a  jealous  goddess,  and  does  not  her  breath 
destroy  the  offender,  though  it  be  a  sin  of  his  ig 
norance  only,  and  his  first  sin.  Of  a  surety  will 
she  destroy  this  brother,  whose  pride  of  heart  lifts 
him  above  us,  and  who,  in  a  vain  conceit  of  soul, 
thinks  to  be  wiser  than  his  father.  Well — he 
shall  not  be  missed  when  Bermahdi  calls  for  the 
victim." 

Thus  communing,  they  returned  to  the  dwelling 
of  their  father,  and  their  hearts  were  filled  with 
wrath  when  they  found  that  their  grandsire  now 
loved  Ipsistos  more  than  before,  and  took  but  lit 
tle  heed  of  the  abundance  of  fruits  which  they  had 
brought  with  them  from  the  temple.  And  he  called 
upon  them  to  rejoice  with  him,  and  to  implore  bless 
ings  upon  their  brother,  saying  — 

"  Verily,  Ipsistos,  my  son,  thou  art  my  "best  be 
loved,  and  the  favorite  of  the  goddess.  Join  with 
me,  my  children,  and  give  praise  to  your  brother; 
for  he  hath  cheered  our  hearth  with  the  blessings 
of  heaven,  and  hath  smoothed  my  passage  to  the 
tomb.  Blessed  of  the  goddess,  Ipsistos,  be  thou 
also  the  blessed  of  thy  father  and  thy  brethren." 

And  the  brothers  murmured  among  themselves, 
and,  more  than  ever,  they  hated  him  by  reason  of 
the  exceeding  love  of  their  father.  All  hated  him 


IPSISTOS 


127 


but  the  young  maiden,  his  sister,  the  youngest  of 
all,  whose  name  was  Damaina  ;  and  she  flung  her 
self  upon  the  neck  of  Ipsistos,  and  called  him  her 
dear  brother,  and  shed  tears  of  joy  and  reverence 
upon  his  neck.  And  the  brothers  turned  from  be 
holding  her,  and  they  spake  together  apart,  and 
they  asked  of  each  other  how  best  they  should  obey 
the  commands  of  Bermahdi,  and  seek  out  the  back- 
slidings  of  Ipsistos. 


VIII. 

But  the  youth  heeded  not  their  doings,  nor  ima 
gined  the  feelings  in  their  hearts.  In  his  own  a 
sweet  sadness  prevailed,  a  shadow  from  his  search 
ing  thought,  that  moved  over  strangest  places, 
and  wandered  into  worlds  far  beyond  his  arm. 
His  life  strayed  afar  from  the  accustomed  paths  of 
his  boyhood;  for  the  voice  was  ever  in  his  ears, 
— the  voice  whose  tones  were  a  perfect  melody 
which  he  might  not  resist,  —  and  they  led  him 
away  from  the  crowded  places,  and  they  tempted 
him  to  fields  which  had  ever  been  forbid.  In  the 
presence  of  his  brethren  he  had  little  comfort,  and 
his  mood  found  no  fellowship  among  those  who 
had  once  given  him  most  sweet  society.  With 


128  IPSISTOS. 

sad  eyes,  but  without  complaint,  did  his  grandsire 
behold  the  shadow  that  was  upon  the  youth,  and 
the  friends  of  his  boyhood,  and  his  young  sister 
Damaina,  the  best  beloved  of  all,  reproached  him 
loudly  for  his  desertion.  But  Ipsistos  only  sighed 
to  them  in  return  ;  and  he  walked  apart  to  hide 
the  tears  which  were  in  his  eyes,  though  his  heart 
was  softened  only  with  a  becoming  joy. 

"  They  chafe  with  me  now,"  he  said  to  himself 
in  musing,  "  but  will  they  chafe  with  me  when  I 
bring  them  to  a  sight  of  her  whom  my  soul  loveth  ; 
when  they  look  upon  the  divine  light  of  her  eyes, 
and  feel  the  blessed  tones  of  her  voice  sink  like  a 
balm  from  heaven  into  their  hearts." 

And  a  holy  pride  filled  his  bosom  as  he  thought 
that  he  should  bring  those  who  loved  him  to  such 
superior  enjoyment.  And  he  followed  the  voice ; 
and  came  to  a  mighty  wood  which  was  dusky  with 
gigantic  forms,  each  having  a  double  shadow. 
And  he  wandered  away  among  the  shadows  'till 
they  grew  like  a  bannered  army  around  him,  and 
he  laid  himself  down  at  their  feet,  and  they  hung 
above  him,  and  he  thought  unutterable  things. 
But  the  thoughts  gave  him  pain  at  length,  for  they 
came  like  pictures  that  pass  rapidly  in  the  uncer 
tain  light  before  the  eye.  And  he  failed  to  know 


IPSISTOS.  129 

them  or  perceive  their  offices.  Vainly  did  he 
strive  to  fix  them  with  his  revolving  mind;  but 
they  fled  from  him,  looking  behind  them  as  they 
fled,  and  showing  him  glimpses  of  their  beguiling 
features.  Through  the  dim  mazes  of  his  mind 
he  struggled  to  trace  their  flight,  but  others  came 
between,  and  so  he  was  confounded  ;  and  he  pray 
ed  for  counsel  and  help  from  the  voice,  and  even 
as  he  prayed  he  slept. 


IX. 


And  the  sleep  of  the  youth  was  troubled,  and 
strange  visions  prevailed  in  his  slumbers.  A  thou 
sand  streaming  lights,  that  seemed  half  girt  with  a 
drapery  of  cloud,  danced  around  him  in  the  clos 
ing  void.  Then,  as  they  departed,  mighty  sha 
dows  rose  even  from  the  earth  at  his  feet,  and  they 
floated  away  from  before  his  sight,  only  to  give 
place  to  other  and  mightier  shadows  yet.  These 
came  in  sable  and  timed  array,  — a  gorgeous  com 
pany  of  trooping  forms,  having  strange  shapes 
that  yielded  to  the  light ;  and  they  bore  solemn 
banners  that  went  trailing  through  the  sky.  Then, 
a  mightier  form  than  all  the  rest,  —  a  shadowless 
form,  full  of  light  that  yet  gave  none  forth,  — 


130 


IPSISTOS. 


came  following  after,  and  Ipsistos  saw  that  it  wore 
a  crown  upon  its  head,  and  yet  the  face  beneath 
it  was  hidden  from  his  straining  gaze.  From  the 
midst  of  the  crown  rose  a  broad  tongue  of  flame, 
that  waved  to  and  fro  among  the  clouds  by  reason 
of  the  rapid  motion  of  the  shadow.  And  the 
shadow  stood  still  when  it  hung  above  the  spot 
where  the  youth  was  sleeping,  and  the  tongue  of 
fire  which  was  upon  the  crown  ceased  to  move  in 
the  wind.  And,  even  as  he  looked,  Ipsistos  be 
held  a  sheet  of  flame  pass  out  from  the  tongue, 
and  it  fell  from  cloud  to  cloud,  and  it  parted  them 
all,  and  it  rested  upon  his  own  forehead.  And  at 
the  same  moment  the  mighty  shadows  which  had 
hung  around  him,  with  brows  of  dusk  and  threat 
ening,  took  to  flight  with  a  rushing  noise,  and  the 
youth  could  hear  them  scream  while  they  flew,  as 
if  pursued  by  a  mighty  terror.  And  a  bright 
light,  like  the  bursting  of  a  meteor,  fell  around 
him,  and  he  heard  a  voice  like  that  which  had 
counselled  him  before,  louder  and  more  piercing 
but  not  less  musical,  that  stopt  his  ascending  spi 
rit,  and  riveted  his  wandering  thought. 

"Arise,  Ipsistos,  thou  art  called  unto  thy  office. 
Thy  sleep  is  over.  The  light  is  around  thee,  — 
the  promise  of  the  day.  Tarry  not,  but  come." 


IPSISTOS.  131 

And  a  shivering  fell  upon  the  sleeper  as  he 
heard  these  warning  accents,  and  marvelled  at  the 
increased  power  of  the  voice  :  and  his  heart  sunk 
within  him,  not  as  he  felt  unwillingness  to  serve  as 
he  was  bidden,  but  because  he  despaired  of  doing 
his  service  fitly,  by  reason  of  his  inability.  And 
he  said  to  hi  mself  as  he  awakened,  — 

"  Now,  wherefore  should  I  be  chosen  for  this 
mighty  work  ?  Am  I  not  the  son  of  the  brick- 
maker, —  is  not  my  extraction  mean,  and,  of  a 
certainty,  I  have  not  been  taught  in  the  mysteries 
of  the  college,  nor  in  the  divine  languages  of  past 
ages  ?  I  am  but  mocked  with  this  sweet  delusion, 
—  I  do  but  cheat  myself  with  the  vanities  of  mine 
own  heart." 

And  the  voice  came  to  his  ears  again  from 
among  the  pale  groves,  that  lay  behind  him  in  the 
silence  of  their  birth-hour.  And  the  voice  was 
sweeter  in  his  ears  than  ever,  and  it  was  strong 
also.  And  it  cheered  him  with  words  of  encourage 
ment. 

"  Wherefore  should' st  tjiou  doubt  of  thy  own 
fitness  for  the  work  of  her  whom  thou  lovest  ?  I 
tell  thee,  Ipsistos,  that  the  servant  is  honored  by 
the  service,  and  the  work  of  truth  takes  no  honor 
from  the  proudest  and  the  wealthiest,  —  nay,  not 
even  from  the  wisest  in  the  land.  Thy  humility 


132  IPSISTOS. 

is  becoming  in  thee,  and  is  the  best  wisdom  thou 
canst  bring  to  my  service.  But  thou  must  be  bold 
too,  and  confident,  —  humble,  because  thou  well 
knowest  how  little  is  thy  knowledge  in  respect  to 
truth,  — bold,  as  it  is  thy  purpose  to  have  know 
ledge  of  the  truth  only.  Come  to  me  in  this  val 
ley  of  shadow,  — build  here  thy  altars  ;  and  hith 
er  bring  the  constant  offering  of  thy  heart,  not  of 
thy  hands.  Come." 

And  the  voice  melted  away  in  his  ears,  and  the 
youth  heard  nothing  but  the  murmuring  of  the 
wind  as  it  streamed  upon  its  way  among  the 
branches  of  the  bending  lindens.  But  he  rose  as 
he  was  bidden,  and  went  forward  to  the  silent 
dwelling  of  the  shade  from  whence  the  sounds  had 
arisen.  And,  as  his  feet  faltered,  by  reason  of  his 
uncertainty,  the  voice  whispered  him  on  his  true 
path,  and  strengthened  him  to  come. 


X. 


And  Ipsistos  sought  the  pale  groves  where  the 
voice  dwelt,  and  he  entered  them  with  fear  and 
trembling.  A  mystery  hung  over  them  like  that 
which  hangs  above  the  mansion  in  the  dreams 
and  darkness  of  the  night.  And  a  sound,  like 


IPSISTOS.  133 

that  of  a  complaining  water,  that  keeps  a  cease 
less  travel  through  all  hours,  and  murmurs  as  it 
has  no  rest,  filled  the  groves ;  and  he  heard  no 
other  sound.  And  he  prayed  that  he  might  heark 
en  to  the  voice  again ;  and  it  fell  upon  his  ears 
like  a  string  smitten  by  the  winds  at  a  far  distance ; 
and  the  youth  lay  upon  his  face  and  trembled,  for 
the  words  of  the  voice  had  no  meaning  to  his  ears. 
But  while  he  lay  upon  the  earth,  and  moaned  in 
his  grief,  he  felt  the  breathing  of  a  warm  air 
around  him  ;  and  when  he  looked  up,  lo  !  a  bright 
eye  was  gazing  down  upon  him  from  the  leaves  of 
the  tree  above  his  head.  And  he  saw  nothing  but 
the  eye  ;  but  he  straightway  knew  it  for  the  eye  of 
the  voice  whose  blessed  sounds  had  sunk  so  deeply 
into  his  heart ;  and  he  murmured  a  fond  prayer  of 
thanksgiving  for  the  blessing  which  had  been 
vouchsafed  him,  even  according  to  the  promise  of 
the  voice  in  his  behalf.  "  Thou  shalt  not  see  me, 
—  thou  canst  not  see  me,  eveji  if  thou  wouldst  and 
I  were  willing,  —  until  the  scales  have  fallen  from 
thine  eyes,  and  until  thou  hast  unlearned  much 
which  stands  in  the  way  of  thy  knowledge  now ; 
but"  —  and  with  glad  heart,  did  he  remember  the 
promise  of  the  voice  —  "  when  thou  givest  up  thy 
whole  soul  in  my  service,  then  shall  my  features 
come  out  before  thee."  And  the  youth  prayed 
VOL.  i.  12 


134  IPSISTOS. 

fervently  for  the  consummation  of  the  blessed  pro 
mise,  for  his  heart  was  full  of  the  beauty  of  the 
eye  which  looked  down  upon  him  from  the  cloud, 
and  with  the  sweetness  of  that  melodious  voice 
which  had  cheered  him  and  led  him  on  his  right 
ful  path.  And,  even  where  he  stood,  did  he  build 
an  altar  to  the  voice  and  the  eye,  and  morning  and 
evening  did  he  steal  away  from  the  press  of  the 
city  to  offer  up  his  homage  to  the  divine  spirit 
which  he  so  much  loved.  And  the  more  bright 
did  the  eye  appear  unto  his  eyes,  and  the  more 
musical  the  voice  to  his  heart,  so,  in  the  like  de 
gree,  did  the  countenance  of  the  goddess  worship 
ped  by  his  people,  put  on  frowns.  And  he  now 
saw  what  he  had  not  seen  before,  that  in  her  face 
were  the  shadows  of  many  passions  of  evil  which 
belonged  to  men.  Was  not  her  eye  fixed  upon 
him  with  hate,  and  did  she  not  smile  upon  those 
whom  he  well  knew  to  be  base  and  unworthy,  as 
they  brought  her  rich  offerings  which  the  hand  of 
violence  had  despoiled  from  the  weak,  and  the  arts 
of  the  cunning  had  inveigled  and  taken  from  the 
confiding.  "  And  can  the  goddess  be  true  ?"  ask 
ed  Ipsistos  of  himself,  "  whose  judgments  tally  not 
with  justice.  Shall  she  smile  upon  the  wrong  doer, 
and  share  of  the  spoil  which  comes  of  the  wrong. 
Is  mere  power,  which  the  wild  colt  hath  in  his 


IPSISTOS. 


135 


madness,  —  a  power  to  destroy, — the  sign  of  the 
perfect  goddess  ?  Shall  my  heart  receive  her 
laws  for  truth,  and  grow  fond  of  her  smile,  when 
it  approves  of  violence,  and  the  sin  that  spoils  and 
strikes  f"  And  the  voice  in  his  heart  answered 
"  No;" — and  with  free  footsteps  he  hurried  away 
at  evening  to  his  lonely  worship  in  the  forest ;  and 
while  he  prayed,  a  halo  of  light  gathered  about 
his  brow,  and,  looking  upward,  he  beheld  the  per 
fect  face  of  the  benign  and  blessing  spirit  which 
he  sought. 


XL 


He  saw  the  perfect  face,  and  never  did  the  vi 
sion  of  his  dreams,  or  the  imaginings  of  his  hopes, 
seem  half  so  divine  or  beautiful.  The  face  looked 
forth  from  a  cloud,  the  edges  of  which  were  trans 
parent  with  a  golden  light ;  and  as  the  lips  opened 
to  speak,  the  words  came  forth  in  visible  rays, 
and  the  sounds  fell  upon  his  heart  in  melody,  and 
tlje  air  blossomed  with  odor.  And  the  light  from 
her  lips  fell  upon  his  own,  and  his  soul  was  lifted 
into  the  highest  hope,  when  he  heard  the  tones  of 
his  own  voice,  and  felt  that  they  were  like  hers. 
And  he  gave  praises  aloud  to  the  divine  spirit  that 


136  IPSISTOS. 

looked  down  upon  him,  and  he  spake  in  song, 
even  in  the  holy  song  of  the  prophets  who  had 
perished  for  the  truth.  And  the  voice  told  him 
that  his  song  was  sweet  in  her  ears,  and  worthy  of 
her  altars.  Till  the  night  cloud  settled  down  upon 
the  pale  groves  where  he  worshipped,  did  Ipsistos 
linger  in  the  place  which  became  so  holy  to  his 
heart ;  and  wings  lifted  his  feet  that  night  when 
he  returned  to  the  humble  dwelling  of  his  father. 

Wings  lifted  his  feet,  for  he  had  a  divine  pur 
pose  in  his  heart. 


XII. 

"  What  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  shall  my  eyes  only 
look  upon  this  gracious  presence  ?  Shall  this 
blessing  come  to  me  only  ?  Is  there  none  worthy 
to  share  with  me  this  joy, — to  partake  with  me 
of  this  glorious  truth,  —  to  live  with  me  in  the  tri 
umph  which  is  promised  me,  and  which  must  be 
mine  !" 

And  he  mused  thus  by  the  hearth  of  his  aged 
grandsire,  and  he  saw  not  that  the  old  man  slept 
in  his  seat.  Then  came  to  him  Damaina,  the  best 
beloved  of  all  his  sisters,  and  she  threw  herself 
around  his  neck,  and  she  said  to  him, — 


IPSISTOS.  137 

"See,  our  grandsire  sleepeth,  Ipsistos,  —  he  will 
fall  from  his  chair,  —  help  me  to  bear  him  to  his 
couch." 

And  in  his  heart  an  instant  voice  cried,  — 

"  Thou  art  she  who  shall  share  with  me  this 
blessing,  —  even  thou,  my  gentlest  Damaina;  for 
thy  heart  is  pure,  and  thy  soul  loveth  the  truth, 
and  thou  hast  reverence  for  the  aged,  and  clamor- 
est  not  in  the  high  places  with  the  presumption  of 
ignorance.  Thou  art  worthy  of  this  joy,  Damai 
na.  It  shall  be  thine." 

And  he  lifted  his  sleeping  grandsire  to  his  couch 
of  straw,  and  that  night  he  said  nothing  to  the 
young  maiden.  But  when  the  gray  dawn  had 
risen  to  his  summits  in  the  east,  then  did  Ipsistos 
come  to  the  chamber  of  the  maiden,  and  he  cried 
to  her  with  a  persuasive  voice,  and  these  were  his 
words,  — 

"  Come  forth,  Damaina,  my  beloved.  I  would 
have  thee  go  with  me.  Now,  while  the  day  is 
young,  and  the  hours  are  blessed  with  the  vigor 
of  a  night's  repose,  go  forth  with  me  into  the  forest. 
I  will  show  thee  some  precious  flowers,  and  thine 
eyes  shall  behold  a  loveliness  which  thou  hast  never 
seen  before  !" 

And  the  maiden  came  forth  with  the  step  that 
12* 


138  IPSISTOS. 

dances  to  the  music  of  a  gentle  heart,  and  a  youth 
ful  but  pure  fancy. 

"  Whither  dost  thou  lead  me,  my  brother .?  But 
I  care  not  whither.  I  know  thy  walks  must  be  the 
loveliest,  for  weir  I  know  how  much  thou  seekest 
the,  things  which  are  so.  Lead  me,  then,  my  bro 
ther, — 1  will  joy  in  the  flowers  which  give  thee 
joy  ;  and  my  heart  shall  drink  of  the  same  sweets 
with  thine." 

And  Ipsistos  rejoiced  greatly  because  of  the 
fondness  of  the  maiden. 

"If  she  will  love  the  things  which  I  love,"  he 
mused  to  his  own  soul,  "  she  will  soon  see  the 
glories  which  delight  mine  eye." 

And  he  led  her  to  the  pale  groves  where  he  wor 
shipped  ;  and  he  shewed  her  the  simple  temple 
which  his  hands  had  built.  And  he  bowed  him 
self  before  the  temple,  and  he  called  upon  the 
maiden  to  do  likewise. 

"  Wherefore,  my  brother  ?"  asked  Damaina. 

"  It  is  the  temple  of  the  true  goddess,  my  sister. 
I  have  beheld  her  divine  presence  even  among 
these  trees.  She  will  be  with  me  anon." 

But  the  maiden  trembled,  and  forebore  to  kneel 
with  her  brother,  by  whose  words  her  soul  was 
confounded. 

"  What  altar  is  this  for  the  goddess,  —  what 


IPSISTOS.  139 

true  goddess  is  this  of  whom  thoti  speakest,  Ip- 
sistos?" 

"She  who  is  truth, — whom  the  truth  alone 
makes  beautiful,  —  makes  strong-,  —  makes  im 
mortal.'* 

"  Ha  !  my  brother,  —  but  these  words  of  thine 
are  strange  to  mine  ears.  Have  we  not  long  wor 
shipped  this  goddess  ?  Stands  not  her  white  tem 
ple  upon  the  high  hill  that  looks  down  upon  the 
city  of  our  fathers." 

"  No  !  her  temple  is  in  the  white  heart !  It  is 
with  you  and  with  me,  my  sister,  if  we  blind  not 
ourselves  wilfully,  and  refuse  not  to  yield  our 
hearts  to  the  truth.  Stay,  —  hear  you  not  her 
voice  ?" 

"I  hear  nothing,  my  brother,  but  a  faint  mur 
mur  as  of  a  wind  that  sighs  among  the  decaying 
trees." 

"  It  is  her  voice  !  Kneel  with  me,  dearest  sister, 
and  the  melody  shall  sink  into  your  heart." 

But  Damaina  did  not  then  kneel  by  reason  of 
her  great  surprise.  But  Ipsistos  knelt,  and  he 
prayed  with  a  passionate  plea  that  the  sweet  voice 
should  fill  the  ears  of  the  sister  whom  he  loved. 
And  when  the  maiden  heard  his  prayer,  her  heart 
strove  within  her ;  and  she  mused  to  herself,  and 
said, — 


140  IPSISTOS. 

"  Surely  this  brother  loves  me,  —  surely  he  is 
wise  and  good ;"  —  and  even  while  he  prayed  she 
sank  down  on  the  turf  beside  him,  and  her  prayers 
were  joined  with  his.  And  the  sound,  which  was 
but  a  murmur  in  her  ears  before,  now  took  a  shape 
of  music,  — •  faint  at  first  as  the  first  plainings  of 
the  harp  troubled  by  the  rising  wind,  but  gather 
ing  into  fulness  at  last,  and  swelling  into  expres 
sion  that  will  not  be  restrained.  The  heart  of  the 
maiden  trembled  within  her,  but  it  was  with  a  new 
born  joy,  and  not  with  any  fear,  that  it  trembled ; 
and  she  began  to  love  the  voice  with  a  love  like 
that  of  Ipsistos,  though,  to  this  time,  she  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  blessed  spirit  which  he  had  seen, 
save  by  the  gentle  tones  with  which  she  had  spo 
ken  to  her  ears.  Yet,  all  the  while  that  she  pray 
ed  beside  her  brother,  the  face  was  looking  down 
upon  them  both,  though  the  maiden  beheld  it  not. 
And  the  eyes  of  Ipsistos  were  opened,  and  he  be 
held  the  form  of  the  true  goddess,  even  as  she  had 
promised  that  he  should  behold  her.  And  she 
smiled  upon  him,  so  that  he  felt  the  wings  grow 
ing  upon  his  shoulders,  but  her  words  were  grave 
in  his  ears. 

"  Thy  prayer  is  granted  thee,  Ipsistos,  —  thou 
hast  seen  me  according  to  the  desire  of  thy  heart. 


IPSISTOS. 


141 


But  thy  hour  is  at  hand,  my  son,  —  thou  hast  but 
little  time  to  live." 

And  the  youth  bowed  his  face  to  the  earth,  and 
his  heart  spoke  in  prayer. 

"  Art  thou  ready,  Ipsistos  ?  The  death-angel 
will  demand  thee  soon." 

And  the  youth  replied  sadly,  but  without  falter 
ing,— 

"  Joy  of  divine  love,  I  am  ready." 

And  the  lovely  image  faded  away  in  a  sweet 
smile  from  his  sight,  and  the  music  died  away 
among  the  pale  groves  ;  and  the  two,  Ipsistos  and 
Damaina,  rose  from  the  place  where  they  had 
worshipped ;  and  their  souls  were  lifted  into  thought, 
so  that  neither  spoke  as  they  took  their  way,  with 
slow  feet,  back  to  the  habitation  of  their  father. 
Yet  the  words  of  the  voice  to  Ipsistos  came  not 
to  the  ears  of  Damaina,  neither  did  his  lips  reveal 
to  her  the  doom  wrhich  awaited  him* 


XIII. 

And  towards  evening  the  two  went  again  to  the 
place  of  their  secret  worship.  But  this  time  they 
went  not  in  secret.  Eyes  were  upon  them  that  re 
garded  not  the  object  of  their  devotion,  and  hearts 


142  IPSISTOS. 

were  busy  to  find  evil  in  the  things  which  their 
hearts  desired.  The  brethren  to  whom  Bermahdi 
had  given  it  in  charge  to  heed  the  backslidings  of 
Ipsistos,  followed  with  cautious  footsteps  upon  his 
path,  and  beheld  the  place  where  he  worshipped. 
And  they  took  heed  that  he  bent  himself  down  be 
fore  the  altar  which  his  own  hands  had  raised,  and 
that  he  prayed  to  other  than  the  goddess  of  the 
temple.  And  they  hurried  to  the  chief  priest  with 
the  tidings,  and  he  gave  them  a  rich  bounty  and 
much  praise  for  their  zeal  in  his  behalf.  And  he 
bade  them  keep  secret  what  they  had  seen,  and 
seek  out  more  knowledge  yet  of  the  doings  of  Ip 
sistos.  And  they  were  spies  set  upon  their  brother, 
who  told  the  chief  priest  of  his  outgoings,  and  fol 
lowed  him  from  place  to  place.  But  nothing  did 
they  say  of  Damaina,  the  sweet  maiden,  who 
bowed  with  her  brother  before  the  strange  altar 
of  his  worship.  And  nothing  did  Ipsistos  know 
of  the  doings  of  his  brothers ;  and  he  gave  little 
heed  to  his  fears,  that  counselled  him  to  be  cautious 
in  what  he  did.  For  the  spirit  of  truth  which  he 
worshipped,  worked  within  him,  and  a  fire  lighted 
up  his  tongue.  So  that  when  the  elders,  and  the 
chiefs,  and  the  rulers  of  the  people,  were  gathered 
together  in  the  high  places,  he  could  not  be  kept 
from  speech,  and  he  came  to  where  they  were  as- 


IPSISTOS.  143 

sembled  ;  and  he  penetrated  into  the  high  places, 
even  among  the  mighty  men  of  the  city,  the  fa 
mous  in  arts  and  arms,  the  sages  and  the  law 
givers.  And  he  cried  to  them  with  a  loud  voice, 
and  all  fear  had  utterly  gone  out  of  his  heart.  And 
he  told  them  of  the  wonders  which  his  eyes  had 
seen,  and  his  ears  had  heard,  even  of  the  wonders 
of  that  new  goddess  which  had  vouchsafed  to  smile 
upon  one  so  lowly.  And  he  prayed  that  they 
might  give  heed  to  his  counsels,  that  they  might 
be  blessed  also  by  her  countenance.  And  he  would 
have  led  them  to  his- place  of  worship,  even  to  the 
pale  groves  where  he  had  raised  his  altar ;  but 
they  mocked  at  his  madness,  and  marvelled  at  the 
fondness  of  the  youth. 

And  they  were  astounded,  and  said,  one  to 
another  — 

"  Who  is  he  that  speaks  to  us  with  so  bold  a 
voice  —  is  he  not  one  of  the  dust-carriers  ?  — 
wears  he  not  of  the  blue  which  is  the  cloth  of  the 
laborer  ?  —  is  he  not  of  the  suburbs  —  the  son  of 
the  brick-maker  ?" 

And  they  drave  him  out  from  among  them,  and 
they  shut  the  door  against  his  face. 


144  IPSISTOS. 


XIV. 

Then,  Ipsistos,  with  a  heart  sore  for  his  people, 
went  into  the  market-place,  where  were  gathered 
together  many  of  his  own  condition,  and  to  these 
he  cried  aloud,  and  he  prayed  that  they  might  give 
ear  to  his  tidings,  and  he  promised  to  show  them 
strange  things.  And  they  were  angered  when 
they  beheld  him  on  the  eminence,  and  hearkened 
to  the  words  of  his  exhortations.  And  one  said — 

"  Is  not  this  Ipsistos,  the  son  of  the  brick-maker 
—  and  shall  one  of  our  own  sort  claim  to  be  wiser 
than  we  ?" 

And  another  cried — 

"  The  mortar  is  even  now  upon  his  jacket,  yet 
would  he  talk  for  the  magi." 

"  Where  should  he  get  this  impudence,"  cried 
a  third,  "  to  speak  to  us  in  words  of  counsel  ? 
Were  we  not  boys  together — have  we  not  often 
played  together  on  the  same  hill-side?" 

"  I  know  him  well ;  he  liveth  in  our  street  —  he 
is  a  fool  that  dreams  —  let  us  stop  his  mouth." 

Then  came  one  from  Bermahdi,  the  high  priest, 
who  whispered  in  the  ear  of  a  huge  man  whose 


IPSISTOS.  145 

anger  was  greater  than  the  rest,  and  these  were  the 
words  of  his  speech  — 

"  Thrust  him  down,  brother,  he  is  insolent;  — 
doth  he  pretend  to  be  wiser  than  us  ?  —  thrust  him 
down,  I  tell  you ;  —  it  shall  be  good  if  we  do  so." 

Then  said  another  who  came  from  Bermahdi — 

"  He  hath  reviled  the  goddess,  whose  white  tem 
ple  is  upon  the  hill  —  thrust  him  down  —  let  the 
grass  grow  in  his  mouth !" 

"  Stone  him  !"  cried  a  third. 

And  the  huge  man,  whose  name  was  Brassid, 
lifted  a  rock  and  flung  it  at  Ipsistos,  and  the  rock 
smote  the  youth  upon  the  ear  and  sorely  wounded 
him.  And  Ipsistos  fled  from  the  wrath  of  the  mul 
titude  ;  and  he  fled,  not  from  fear  but  from  sorrow, 
as  he  beheld  many  among  the  multitude  with  whom 
he  had  played  even  when  a  boy.  And  he  had  a 
purpose  in  his  flight,  and  he  fled  towards  the  pale 
groves  where  he  had  raised  the  altar.  And  the 
multitude  pursued  him,  and  they  reviled  him  and 
stoned  him  as  he  fled.  But  when  the  youth 
reached  the  groves  he  paused  in  his  flight,  and  he 
turned  full  upon  the  multitude —  and  his  eye  was 
lifted,  and  he  beheld  the  goddess  whom  he  wor 
shipped,  looking  down  upon  him  from  the  cloud. 
And  the  sweet  voice  spoke  in  his  ears  — 

"  Ipsistos  —  thy  hour  is  come  !" 
VOL.  i.  13 


146 


IPSISTOS. 


"  Let  the  hour  be  blessed  by  thee,  oh !  image 
of  divinest  joy,  and  thy  servant  hath  no  fears.  He 
is  ready." 

And  he  laid  his  hands  upon  the  horns  of  the  al 
tar,  and  he  looked  out  upon  the  multitude.  And 
he  began  a  song  of  thanksgiving  and  of  praise, 
though  their  voices  were  bitter  with  revilings.  And 
they  rushed  upon  him  where  he  stood,  and  they 
tore  him  from  the  horns  of  the  altar.  With  a 
blind  fury  they  set  upon  him,  and  the  strong  men 
seized  each  of  them  a  limb.  And  Brassid  was  the 
man  who  bade  them  do  violence  upon  him.  And 
they  dragged  the  youth  to  and  fro,  and  they  rent 
his  limbs  apart,  and  scattered  them  asunder  even 
while  the  life  struggled  in  his  bosom.  And  when 
they  had  done  the  deed,  they  wrere  confounded, 
and  knew  not  what  they  had  done.  But  Brassid, 
the  strong,  who  was  of  a  mean  craft,  he  laughed 
to  scorn  the  confusion  of  the  multitude.  And 
with  loud  cries  he  rushed  upon  the  altar  which  Ip- 
sistos  had  raised  with  his  own  hands,  and  he  would 
have  torn  the  altar  from  its  place,  but  a  sudden  fear 
seized  upon  him.  For  a  bright  eye  looked  out 
upon  him  from  the  cloud,  with  a  look  of  exceed 
ing  sorrow ;  and  the  sounds  of  a  sad  voice  came 
upon  his  ears  like  a  passing  wind  ;  and  these  were 
the  words  of  the  voice  — 


IPSISTOS.  147 

"  What!  ye  have  slain  your  master  —  he  who 
hath  wrought  for  you  ;  and  now  would  you  destroy 
his  work  ?  Go  ! — but  come  to  me  at  evening." 

And  none  saw  the  eye,  or  heard  the  voice,  but 
Brassid,  and,  for  a  brief  time,  he  was  too  greatly 
astonished  to  speak.  And  the  people  would  have 
rushed  upon  the  altar  even  as  he  had  done,  but  he 
stayed  their  fury : 

"  Enough  !  Wherefore  should  we  pull  down 
this  pile  which  is  but  of  wood,  and  the  work  of  him 
whom  we  have  destroyed.  Let  it  stand,  in  token 
of  his  folly." 

And  he  led  the  multitude  back  to  the  city,  but 
the  voice  went  with  him. 


XV. 


And  the  aged  man,  the  grandsire  of  Ipsistos, 
died  that  night  by  reason  of  his  exceeding  grief; 
and  the  house  of  the  brethren  was  the  house  of 
mourning.  But  Damaina,  the  young  sister  of  Ip 
sistos,  she  stayed  not  to  join  with  them  in  the  song 
of  lamentation.  Her  heart  was  with  Ipsistos,  by 
the  lonely  altar,  among  the  pale  groves  of  the 
forest.  And  though  it  was  a  fear  of  the  wrath  of 
the  multitude  that  kept  the  brethren  away  from 


148  IPSJSTOS. 

seeking  his  mangled  remains  to  give  them  burial, 
yet  no  such  fear  stayed  the  footsteps  of  Damaina. 
And  she  went  forth  from  the  dwelling  when  no 
one  beheld  her,  and  with  a  sorrow  that  was  beyond 
any  dread  of  what  the  vengeance  of  man  could  do, 
and  she  sought  out  the  place  of  worship  in  the 
forest,  even  among  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  night. 
And  lo !  when  she  came  to  the  spot,  a  bright  halo 
was  shining  above  the  altar.  And  wherever  a 
limb  of  Ipsistos  had  fallen,  there  also  hung  a  silver 
light ;  and  by  this  token  the  maiden  well  knew  that 
the  lovely  goddess  smiled  upon  the  purpose  which 
was  in  her  heart.  And  the  maiden  gathered  up 
the  scattered  remains,  and  she  looked  about  for  a 
place  to  lay  them  ;  and  even  while  she  looked,  the 
earth  opened  before  her  at  the  foot  of  the  altar, 
and  a  flame,  like  a  flame  from  heaven,  came  down 
and  hung  above  the  place.  Then  did  Damaina 
see  the  meaning  of  the  goddess  whom  her  brother 
had  loved,  and  she  laid  his  bleeding  limbs  therein. 
And  the  earth  closed  over  them  when  she  had 
done,  and  she  prayed  with  a  fond  heart  above  the 
grave.  And  her  prayer  was  accepted,  and  she 
saw  the  bright  face  looking  down  upon  her,  even 
as  it  had  looked  down  upon  Ipsistos  ;  and  by  this 
sign  did  the  maiden  know  that  the  blessing  of  truth 
was  growing  perfected  in  her  hearr.  And  while 


IPSiSTOS. 


149 


she  kneeled  before  the  altar  she  heard  the  footsteps 
of  one  approaching,  and  she  would  have  risen  in 
fear,  and  fled  from  the  place,  because  of  the  night. 
But  the  voice  of  the  goddess  commanded  her  to 
stay  and  fear  nothing. 

"  He  who  cometh,"  said  the  voice,  "  is  a  wor 
shipper  like  thyself.  He  will  do  thee  no  manner 
of  harm." 

And  it  was  Brassid  that  came;  he  who  led  the 
multitude  against  Ipsistos  ;  arid  the  maiden  trem 
bled  when  she  beheld  him  in  spite  of  the  promise 
of  the  goddess.  But  Brassid  approached  the  al 
tar  with  a  trembling  greater  than  her  own.  And 
the  strong  man  humbled  himself  with  his  face  in 
the  dust  ere  he  drew  nigh  unto  the  altar.  He 
had  no  strength  in  his  limbs  because  of  the  guilt 
in  his  heart,  and  he  prayed  like  one  who  repenteth 
and  is  full  of  sorrow  for  his  misdeeds.  Then  Da- 
maina,  the  maiden,  had  pity  of  his  sufferings,  even 
though  he  smote  her  brother,  and  she  prayed  to 
the  goddess  in  his  behalf.  And  he  cried,  — 

"  Who  art  thou  that  pleadest  for  a  wretch  like 
me.  Know'st  thou  not  that  blood  is  on  rny  hands, 
—  even  the  blood  of  the  good  and  the  innocent  ?" 

Then  the  maiden  answered  him,  saying,  — 

"  I  am  the  maiden  Damaina,  even  she,  the  best 
beloved  sister  of  Ipsistos,  whom  thy  hand  hath 
13* 


150  IPSISTOS. 

slain ;  but  if  thou  weepest  for  that  deed,  shall  I 
not  forgive  thee,  with  a  heart  as  tender  of  mercy 
as  thine  own  ?  Bear  witness,  oh,  beautiful  goddess 
whom  my  brother  loved,  bear  witness  that  I  for 
give  this  unhappy  man,  — even  from  my  inmost 
heart  do  I  forgive  him." 

While  thus  she  prayed  before  the  altar,  the  pale 
groves  were  lighted  up  with  a  sudden  glory  ;  and 
the  two  beheld  the  bright  face,  and  the  lovely  fea 
tures  of  the  goddess,  and  her  words  came  to  them 
in  authority.  And  she  bade  the  man,  even  Brassid 
who  slew  Ipsistos,  draw  nigh  to  the  altar,  and 
when  he  came  as  he  was  commanded,  and  bowed 
by  the  side  of  Damaina,  lo  !  it  was  the  form  of 
Ipsistos  that  stood  between  them,  —  and  the  image 
of  the  youth  smiled  sweetly  upon  him,  even  upon 
Brassid  his  murderer,  and  his  words  were  these  in 
his  ears  : 

"  Thou  hast  driven  me  from  the  work  which 
was  assigned  me,  —  it  is  commanded  that  thou 
labor  to  the  fulfilment  thereof.  Go,  therefore,  and 
the  smile  of  the  goddess  be  with  thee  ;  —  in  my 
blood  shalt  thou  find  a  cement  which  shall  build  a 
stronger  and  a  higher  temple  than  the  v,  hite  tem 
ple  upon  the  hill." 

And  Ipsistos  spake  nothing  to  Damaina?  but 


IPSISTOS.  151 

he  looked  upon  her  with  a  smile  of  blessing  and 
love,  and  so  passed  from  her  sight. 


XVI. 

And  from  that  hour  a  power  seemed  given  unto 
Brassid  to  work  great  things.  And  he  went 
among  the  people  of  his  craft  in  the  market  place, 
and  he  taught  them,  so  that  they  hearkened  with 
reverence  to  his  voice.  And  the  people  came  to 
hear  him  from  all  quarters  of  the  city,  and  after 
hearing  him  they  went  away  sad  and  thoughtful. 
Day  by  day,  and  night  by  night,  without  weari 
ness  and  without  fear,  did  Brassid  teach  along  the 
highways,  of  the  wonders  which  he  had  seen,  and 
the  greater  wonders  which  he  had  heard,  and  a 
power  was  given  to  him  of  the  goddess,  so  thai 
whoso  came  to  hear,  though  it  were  in  scorn  only, 
remained  to  do  homage  to  the  wondrous  truths 
which  he  brought,  and  followed  him,  by  reason  of 
this  homage,  whithersoever  he  went.  And  the 
numbers  increased  daily  of  those  who  followed  him. 
Then  did  the  chief  men  of  the  city  hold  counsel 
with  the  priests  of  the  temple  upon  the  hill,  how 
best  to  overcome  this  preacher  of  strange  doc 
trines.  And  they  sent  persons  against  them  with 


152  IPSISTOS, 

authority  to  seize  and  punish.  But  the  multitude 
rose  up  in  defence  of  Brassid,  even  as  they  had 
risen  against  Ipsistos  at  his  summons,  and  they 
pelted  the  servants  of  the  temple  with  stones,  and 
they  ran  furiously  upon  the  temple.  And  they 
dragged  the  goddess  from  her  throne,  and  they 
drove  forth  the  priests  from  within  it.  And  Bras 
sid  bade  them  smite  the  head  from  the  false  god 
dess,  and  drag  her  carcass  in  the  dust.  And  they 
tore  the  white  temple  asunder,  so  that  one  stone 
stood  not  up  against  another.  And  when  this  had 
been  done,  then  did  Brassid  bid  them  bring  the 
white  marble  of  the  temple  to  the  pale  groves 
where  Ipsistos  had  built  his  altar,  and  they  raised 
a  temple  loftier  than  that  upon  the  hill,  and  they 
raised  it  even  over  the  grave  of  Ipsistos  whom  they 
had  slain.  And  in  the  temple  over  against  the  al 
tar  there  descended  a  divine  form  from  heaven, 
but  over  the  face  thereof  hung  a  bright  and  shi 
ning  veil  ;  and  on  the  veil  was  written  these 
words : 

"  To  those,  only,  who,  like  Ipsistos,  love  me  ere 
yet  they  have  known  me,  my  veil  shall  be  uplifted." 

And  the  people  built  a  high  monument  to  the 
memory  of  Ipsistos  with  the  huge  stones  with 
which  they  had  slain  him ;  and  Brassid  wrote  the 


IPSISTOS.  153 

inscription  upon  the  monument,  which  was  as  fol 
lows  : 

"  IPSISTOS  ! 
we,  who  hated  the  truth,  slew  him 

because  he  loved  it : 

May  the  truth  teach  us  better  knowledge 
of  our  friends,  so  that  we  cut  not  off  our  own 

heads !" 

But  Damaina,  the  sister  of  Ipsistos,  beheld  no 
thing  of  these  things.  They  saw  her  not  after 
that  hour  when  the  goddess  had  given  it  in  charge 
to  Brassid  to  complete  the  labor  of  Ipsistos.  And 
they  raised  for  her  a  tomb  beside  that  of  her  bro 
ther,  but  left  open  the  door  thereof,  as  thinking 
she  might  yet  come.  But  to  this  day  she  came 
not. 


THE  STAR  BRETHREN. 


THE  STAR  BRETHREN. 


I. 

"  I  WILL  come  to  thee,  at  midnight,  dear  Anas- 
tasia — with  life  only  will  I  fail  thee." 

These  were  the  parting  words  of  the  enamored 
boy ;  and  the  tones  of  his  voice,  not  less  than  the 
language  which  he  used,  spoke  for  his  deep  devo 
tion. 

"  At  midnight,  dear  Albert,"   was  the  reply. 

"  I  live  not  till  then  !"  said  the  youth,  passion 
ately;  "  and,  if  thou  meet  me  not,  Anastasia — if 
thou  fail  me  —  " 

"Fear  me  not !"  was  the  low  but  emphatic  in 
terruption  of  the  maiden.  "  In  life  or  death,  dear 
Albert,  I  am  only  thine.  I  will  not  fail  thee." 

The  leaves  of  the  grove  parted,  and  by  the  pale 
glimmer  of  evening  the  two  might  be  seen  taking 
their  farewell  and  fond  embrace.  She,  a  tall  and 

VOL.  i.  14 


158  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

slender  maiden,  lovely  as  the  light,  and  softer  than 
the  new  born  zephyr  ;  and  he,  manly  and  strong, 
yet  young  —  having  a  frame  of  the  most  perfect 
symmetry,  and  a  face  full  of  beauty  and  expres 
sion.  A  fond,  sweet  kiss,  a  parting  word  and 
sigh,  an  earnest  and  longing  glance  of  rapture  — 
and  the  lovers  separated. 

They  had  not,  however,  been  unseen.  The 
eyes  of  jealousy  were  upon  them,  and  the  gloomy 
and  fierce  Wallenberg  —  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of 
the  damsel — had  watched  them  throughout  the 
interview. 

"  At  midnight !"  he  muttered,  as  he  saw  the 
youth  depart.  "  It  is  well —  I  will  be  there  also." 
And  he  shook  his  hand  after  the  departing  form  of 
Albert,  and  his  brow  was  covered  with  a  cloudy 
anger,  which  sufficiently  denoted  the  terrible 
thoughts  of  his  mind,  and  the  malignant  feelings 
whicli  were  working  in  his  heart.  Yet  Wallen 
berg  was  a  nobleman  of  high  birth,  and  renowned 
for  deed  of  valor  and  great  achievement.  He 
was  not  less  so,  for  his  great  family  estate  and  wide 
possessions.  These  had  commended  him  to  the 
family  of  Anastasia  D'Arlemont,  with  which  he 
was  connected.  They  all  knew  him  for  a  coarse, 
rude,  rough-handed  nobleman  ;  yet,  as  the  terrors 
of  his  claws  were  calmed  in  gold,  he  was  thought 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  159 

no  unfitting  match  for  the  gentle  and  shrinking 
Anastasia.  But  she  trembled  at  his  approach,  and 
it  was  with  a  pang  like  death  that  she  learned  how 
far  his  suit  had  met  with  the  approbation  of  her 
parents.  Her  attachment  to  Albert  was  unknown 
to  them,  and  to  have  made  it  known,  would,  she 
well  knew,  avail  her  nothing.  The  passionate 
persuasions  of  her  sanguine  lover  relieved  her 
from  the  difficulty  before  her.  He  had  persuaded 
her  that  her  only  hope  was  in  flight  —  in  flight 
with  him.  There  was  nothing  so  terrible  in  that. 
Would  she  not  have  died  for  him  ?  Could  she  live 
without  him  ;  and  what  was  life,  with  such  a  bear 
as  Count  Wallenberg.  Albert  found  but  little 
difficulty  in  convincing  her  reason,  through  the 
medium  of  her  heart — the  medium  through  which 
young  damsels  are  most  usually  convinced.  At 
midnight,  then,  she  was  to  fly  with  him.  Such 
were  the  resolves  of  the  lovers ;  but  Wallenberg 
resolved  otherwise. 

Albert  of  Holstein  was  even  then  a  student  in 
one  of  the  German  universities  of  the  time,  the 
name  of  which  is  unnecessary  to  this  narrative. 
He  was,  at  the  period  of  which  we  write,  just  en 
tering  his  eighteenth  year.  Until  his  sixteenth,  he 
had  been  under  the  guardianship  of  a  good,  but 
weak  and  misjudging  mother.  While  yet  an  in 


160  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 

fant,  he  had  lost  his  father,  who  had  fallen  in  a  do 
mestic  feud  with  some  rival  baron,  occasioned  by 
a  difference  of  opinion  on  some  matter  of  great 
importance  or  of  no  importance  at  all,  which  had 
suggested  itself  to  them  for  discussion,  while  over 
their  cups.  The  son  —  Albert — but  fora  mind 
and  temper  naturally  excellent,  would  have  been 
utterly  ruined  by  the  various  and  misconceived  in 
dulgences  of  his  surviving  parent.  Nature,  how 
ever,  who  is  not  often  strong  enough  for  so  trying 
a  toil,  resisted  the  mother  long  enough  to  save  the 
son  from  utter  ruination  ;  and,  when  sixteen  years 
of  age,  he  was  ready  to  go  to  college.  After  the 
usual  preparation,  he  was  admitted  into  one  of  the 
leading  universities,  where  he  soon  had  occasion  to 
test  for  himself  the  propriety  of  that  course  to 
which  he  had  so  imprudently  been  subjected.  It 
is  not  our  object,  however,  to  analyze  or  dwell 
upon  the  impressions  of  his  mind  under  the  new 
changes  of  his  condition  —  affecting,  as  they  must 
have  done,  the  whole  structure  of  his  early  habits, 
and  pruning  and  converting,  as  it  were,  the  dead 
branches  of  excess  into  a  new  and  fresh  capacity 
of  life.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  he  rapidly  threw 
aside  the  follies  of  habit  and  of  thought  which  the 
error  of  his  mother  had  engendered.  The  resour 
ces  of  his  own  mind  —  a  case  not  very  common  — 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  161 

enabled  him  to  contend  with,  successfully,  and 
finally  to  counteract,  the  thousand  mistakes  of  a 
foolishly  fond  parent,  and  a  cringing  crowd  of  do 
mestic  parasites. 


II. 


The  night  came  —  a  sweet  night  of  many  and 
bright  stars  —  a  night  for  secret,  and  sacred,  and 
stolen  love.  But  it  was  not  a  night  for  love  only. 
It  was  a  night  for  hate,  also,  —  for  jealousy  and 
murder.  There  was  one  who  watched  for  the 
coming  of  Albert  as  anxiously  as  did  the  gentle 
Anastasia  ;  but  it  was  with  not  such  sweet  and  fond 
regard  as  that  which  filled  her  devoted  bosom. 
With  the  darkness  he  stole  into  the  silent  groves 
which  had  been  assigned  for  the  meeting,  and 
there  waited  for  the  hour  and  the  victim.  He  had 
no  scruples  at  any  crime  —  his  hand  had  been  often 
imbrued  in  blood,  which  was  not  always  shed  in 
battle  —  and  he  was  resolved,  at  every  hazard,  to 
remove  his  rival.  He  had  seen  enough  in  the 
brief  interview  which  he  had  witnessed,  to  feel  that, 
however  secure  he  might  be  of  the  preference  of 
the  family,  he  was  very  far  from  the  hope  of  a  like 
14* 


162  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 

preference  in  the  estimation  of  the  maiden,  while 
Albert  lived.  It  was  the  natural  error  of  a  wretch 
so  coarse  as  Wallenberg,  to  imagine  that  he  would 
be  more  successful  when  he  should  have  slain  the 
youth.  The  poor  maiden  despised  him ;  though,  as 
he  was  favored  by  her  parents,  she  dared  not  give 
open  expression  to  her  disapprobation  and  scorn. 
She  was  compelled  to  submit  in  silence  which 
seemed  satisfied.  Perhaps,  she  would  not  have 
so  readily  consented  to  fly  with  Albert,  but  for  the 
tyranny  of  the  union  they  were  about  to  force 
upon  her.  The  necessity  of  the  case  would  seem 
to  justify  her  fatal  resolution.  The  suit  of  Albert 
had  been  denied,  and  the  language  of  denial  by 
her  parents  had  been  also  that  of  contumely  and 
reproach.  There  was  no  hope  for  her  but  in  flight ; 
and  the  preparations  of  the  lovers  were  secret  to 
all  but  Wallenberg.  As  we  have  seen,  his  jealous 
eyes  had  watched  them  —  his  keen  ears  noted  their 
arrangements,  and  now,  his  keener  knife  was  ready 
to  prevent  them.  This  sort  of  remedy  was  charac 
teristic  of  the  time.  The  strong  arm  carried  out 
the  strong  word,  and  justice,  which  is  now  a  mat 
ter  of  calculation  and  cunning,  was  then  a  thing  of 
muscle  and  brutality.  The  murderer  lurked  in 
the  shadow  of  the  groves,  and  the  lover,  impatient 
for  his  prize,  stole  hurriedly  through  their  reces- 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  163 

ses.  His  heart  was  elate  with  its  hope,  and  his 
footstep  was  that  of  joy.  He  had  almost  reached 
the  place  assigned  for  the  meeting — a  close  bower 
of  sweet  shrubs  in  the  centre  of  the  garden.  But 
the  foe  and  fate  lay  in  his  path,  and  he  was  not 
permitted  to  reach  it.  He  heard  the  rustling  of 
the  bushes. 

"Dearest,  —  I  am  here,"  he  murmured  at  the 
sound. 

"  And  I  am  here  !"  was  the  fierce  word  of 
Wallenberg,  as  he  plunged  the  cruel  weapon  into 
the  bosom  of  the  youth;  —  "  this,  boy,  for  thy  pre 
sumption." 

The  only  word  uttered  by  the  unhappy  lover, 
was  the  name  of  his  mistress ;  and  he  lay  in  the 
sleep  of  death  at  the  feet  of  his  murderer.  Wal 
lenberg  stole  away  in  silence  when  his  felon  deed 
was  done  ;  satisfied  that  his  own  hope  grew  strong 
in  the  annihilation  of  that  of  his  rival.  He  knew 
not  the  heart  of  Anastasia. 


III. 


How  slowly  passed  the  hours  to  the  maiden, 
while  she  waited  for  the  coming  of  the  youth. 
From  the  lattice,  long  and  anxiously  had  she 


164  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 

looked  forth,  listening  for  the  dear  accents  of  his 
whispering  voice  ;  and  when  the  clock  tolled  forth 
the  full  hour  of  midnight,  impatient  to  behold  him, 
she  stole  hurriedly  down  into  the  garden,  treading 
its  flowery  mazes,  but  seeking  him  every  where  in 
vain.  Her  heart  already  began  to  fill  with  those 
thousand  mysterious  fears,  and  apprehensive  fore 
bodings,  which  are  natural  enough  to  a  German 
maiden,  when  she  fancied  she  heard  a  sigh.  She 
followed  the  sound,  and  something  seemed  to  float 
in  the  air  before  her.  A  gentle  breath  moved  the 
leaves  overhead,  though  elsewhere  a  universal 
stillness  prevailed.  The  sigh  was  repeated  —  the 
breathing  zephyr  still  guided  her  from  above,  and 
when  it  ceased  to  move,  the  lifeless  body  of  her 
lover  lay  at  her  feet.  With  a  single  shriek, 
scarcely  less  lifeless  than  himself,  she  sank  down 
beside  him,  and  was  only  aroused  to  the  conscious 
ness  of  a  greater  misery  by  a  terrible  voice  which 
sounded  in  her  ears. 

"  Away  with  her !"  cried  the  furious  father,  — 
"take  her  home  —  remove  her  from  my  sight." 

She  clung  to  the  inanimate  form,  which  could 
no  longer  return  her  fond  caresses. 

"  You  shall  not — no !  no  !  I  will  not  leave  him. 
I  will  cling  to  him  to  the  last/' 

But  what  could  her  strength  avail   against  that 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  165 

of  the  brutal  retainers,  assisted  by  the  bloody  Wal 
lenberg.  They  tore  her  from  the  corpse  with 
unmeasured  violence. 

"  He  is  yet  warm  !"  shrieked  the  maiden  —  "he 
is  not  dead  —  I  may  yet  save  him  —  he  will  hear 
my  voice.  Oh  !  leave  me  —  leave  me  with  him,  I 
implore  you." 

"  Home  with  her,  I  say,"  were  the  words  of  the 
implacable  father,  which  silenced  her  entreaties. 
She  shuddered  to  behold  the  malignant  and  savage 
exultation  which  were  impressed  upon  his  features 
as  he  spoke.  With  the  sight,  a  fearful  fancy 
gathered  in  her  brain.  She  suspected  him  —  her 
own  father — of  the  cruel  crime,  and  this  suspi 
cion  increased  her  misery.  The  true  assassin, 
looking  on  the  while,  remained  unknown.  In 
quiry  in  a  little  time,  having  labored  without  suc 
cess  to  find  the  criminal,  forbore  its  task  ;  and  if, 
at  any  moment,  public  suspicion  rested  any  where 
in  particular,  the  object  was  one  quite  too  high 
for  the  arm  of  public  justice. 


IV. 


Meanwhile,  the  corpse  of  Albert  was  removed 
to  his  former  lodgings,  and  from  thence  to  the 


166  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 

family  vault  in  the  country.  But  a  strange  report 
—  none  knew  whence  —  came  to  the  ears  of  Anas- 
tasia.  It  was  whispered  that  Albert  of  Holstein 
was  still  alive.  The  story  went  that  a  skilful  phy 
sician  and  careful  hands  had  kept  the  spark  of 
life  in  his  bosom,  and  that  hopes  were  entertained 
of  his  final  recovery.  But  these  hopes,  though 
they  inspired  new  ones  in  the  heart  of  Anastasia, 
were  for  a  long  time  illusive,  and,  perhaps,  injuri 
ous,  They  kept  her  mind  in  a  state  of  feverish 
inquietude,  and  prolonged,  if  they  did  not  increase, 
the  sickness  at  her  heart. 

But  little  time  was  allowed  her,  however,  for 
idle  meditation  upon  fancies  such  as  these.  Count 
Wallenberg  pressed  his  suit,  and  would  not  be  de 
nied.  In  vain  did  the  maiden  plead  for  time  — 
for  a  brief  indulgence  to  her  sorrows.  At  that 
early  period  in  the  history  of  civilization,  parents 
did  not  often  trouble  themselves  to  give  ear  to  the 
tastes  and  desires  of  their  daughters.  They  did 
not,  in  the  present  instance ;  but  with  the  most  cruel 
disregard  to  her  complaints  and  prayers,  they  de 
creed  her  to  the  great  bear,  her  wealthy  lover. 
They  doomed  her  to  the  sacrifice,  and  the  day  was 
appointed  for  placing  the  victim  before  the  altar. 
We  may  not  speak  of  the  anguish  of  Anastasia  on 
being  instructed  to  prepare  for  the  nuptials  with 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  167 

"Wallenberg.  She  felt  that  it  would  be  far  easier 
to  die.  But,  hopeless  of  any  aid  from  without, 
and  having  no  succor  or  show  of  mercy  from 
within,  she  prepared  to  resign  herself  without 
struggling  to  the  fate  which  now  seemed  inevita 
ble. 

It  was  only  a  few  weeks  after  the  death  of  her 
lover,  when  this  scarcely  less  cruel  doom  was  ut 
tered  in  her  hearing.  She  fled  to  her  chamber, 
desperate  and  desolate.  She  knew  not  where  to 
turn  for  consolation  or  counsel.  It  was  midnight. 
She  threw  herself  down  before  her  window,  and 
wished  and  prayed  for  death.  The  very  associa 
tions  of  memory,  so  full  of  pleasure  and  joy  as  the 
reality  had  been,  now  brought  her  infinite  pain. 
They  told  her  what  she  had  enjoyed,  but  they  also 
told  her  what  she  had  lost,  and  lost  for  ever.  She 
felt  that  it  would  be  sweet  then  to  lapse  away  into 
forgetfulness,  and,  fleeing  from  the  pressure  and 
the  care  of  life,  rejoin  her  departed  lover  in  the 
dwellings  of  the  blessed. 

Musing  thus,  and  hopeless  of  all  things  and 
thoughts,  she  starts  and  trembles.  A  sudden  ter 
ror  is  upon  her.  Her  blood  freezes  in  her  veins 
—  her  very  heart  grows  cold.  What  is  it  that 
she  hears  —  what  is  it  that  rises  up  before  her 
sight  f 


168  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

Well  may  she  start  and  tremble.  The  faint  and 
exquisite  tones  of  music  which  now  seek  her  ears 
are  such  as  she  had  long  been  accustomed  to  hear 
from  the  lips  of  Albert.  The  words  are  those  of 
a  familiar  song,  and  the  tones  cannot  be  mistaken. 
They  breathe  of  the  same  sweet  passion — they 
speak  the  same  blessed  language.  It  is  Albert's 
voice  and  music,  and  Albert  must  be  at  hand. 
Breathlessly,  and  half  fainting,  she  lingered  and 
listened  to  the  strains.  She  did  not  dare  to  move 
—  indeed  she  could  not — while  she  heard  them. 
But  soon  they  melted  away  in  distance,  and  the 
winds  only  remained  sighing  mournfully  through 
the  lattice.  Her  frame  seemed  fastened  —  frozen 
to  the  ground  ;  and  her  terror,  becoming  insup 
portable  at  length,  with  a  shriek  she  rushed  to  the 
innermost  recesses  of  her  chamber,  and  burying 
her  head  in  the  thick  drapery  of  the  couch,  strove, 
in  this  way,  to  fly  and  hide  from  those  strange  and 
terrible  surmises  which  were  fast  gathering  in  her 
soul. 

But  the  strange  and  startling  minstrelsy  pur 
sued  her  even  there,  and  its  fascinations  proved 
too  powerful  for  her  mind  to  resist.  She  braved 
all  the  terrors  of  her  imagination,  in  the  hope 
again  to  hear  it.  With  the  approach  of  the  next 
midnight  she  again  sought  the  lattice,  and  listened 


THE    STAR    BRETHREN.  169 

impatiently  for  the  returning  strains.  They  came 
at  last,  obedient  to  her  senses.  The  same  sweet, 
mysterious  air,  rose  swelling  upon  the  night  wind, 
and  was  borne,  as  it  were,  directly  to  the  window 
where  she  sat.  The  tones  were  full  of  the  warm 
est  melancholy  —  faint,  but  full  —  strange,  but 
sweet — mysterious  and  vague,  but  as  familiar  as 
if  they  had  all  been  learned  in  childhood.  She 
was  no  longer  terrified  ;  and,  obeying'  an  impulse 
which  she  now  found  irresistible,  and  having  no 
fears,  she  gently  undid  the  lattice,  and  looked  out 
with  far-searching  eyes  among  the  trees  of  the  gar 
den.  Nor  did  she  look  in  vain.  She  beheld  a 
form  retreating  away  among  the  thick  crowding 
trees,  so  nearly  resembling  that  of  her  departed 
lover,  that  she  involuntarily  uttered  his  name. 
She  was  answered  by  a  sigh  —  so  mournful,  so 
deep,  that  it  seemed  to  reproach  her  for  the  indif 
ference  of  her  grief — for  her  consenting  to  the 
bridal  sacrifice  which  had  been  decreed  by  her 
father.  Her  sorrows  burst  forth  afresh  with  this 
thought,  and  she  was  convulsed  by  her  emotions. 
She  lost  all  guidance  of  her  reason  at  that  mo 
ment,  and  called  upon  Albert  deliriously. 

Had  her  voice  indeed  so  much  power  ?  Had 
the  deity  spoken  from  her  lips,  and  was  it  in  truth 
her  lover  who  now  stood  before  her  f  Fair  and 

VOL.  i.  15 


170  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 

manly  as  when  at  first  she  had  beheld  him,  she 
beheld  him  now.  He  looked  even  lovelier  and 
nobler  than  ever.  No  trace  of  his  hurts  was  per 
ceptible.  He  was  alive,  and  utterly  uninjured. 
She  grew  faint  as  she  surveyed  him.  She  trem 
bled  with  a  feeling  of  awe,  lest,  at  that  moment,  she 
should  be  standing  in  the  presence  of  a  spectre. 
His  eyes,  though  clear  and  intelligent  as  ever, 
were  sad,  and  full  of  a  solemn  expression.  They 
looked  the  divinity  of  wo  —  such  an  expression  as 
might  well  belong  to  afallen  and  defeated  deity.  A 
mingled  feeling  of  love  and  adoration,  which  she 
stove  vainly  to  restrain,  filled  and  inflamed  her 
heart.  How  gentle  were  all  his  tones — how  sooth 
ing  his  words  —  how  tender  their  utterance.  How 
sweetly  did  he  assure  her  of  his  existence —  of  his 
continued  love  for  her,  even  while  that  existence 
was  doubtful.  He  had  been  in  deep  extremity 
from  his  wounds  —  on  the  verge  of  dissolution, 
from  which  he  had  been  saved  only  by  the  marvel 
lous  skill  of  his  physician.  The  moment  of  his 
recovery  brought  him  once  more  to  the  feet  of  her 
without  whom  the  skill  which  had  saved  him  would 
have  been  rejected.  He  had  risked  all  danger 
once  more  to  see  her  —  to  hear  from  her  lips  that 
she  was  not  lost  to  him  yet  —  that  she  would  be 
none  other  than  his.  How  easy  to  give  that  assu- 


THE    STAR    BRETHREN.  171 

ranee,  —  how  sweet  to  receive  it.  Long  did  they 
linger  in  the  sacred  and  silent  garden,  in  fond  com 
munion,  with  no  watcher  but  the  stars,  and  no 
thought  but  of  that  trae  and  blessing  love  which 
they  seemed  to  smile  upon  and  sanction. 

But  the  difficulty  of  escape  from  the  approach 
ing  bridal  with  Wallenberg  distracted  the  maiden, 
in  the  midst  of  all  her  new-born  hopes  and  plea 
sures.  She  had  poured  into  her  lover's  bosom  all 
the  sorrows  which  had  troubled  hers.  His  com 
posure  satisfied  and  reassured  her. 

"  Fear  nothing,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  not  lose  you. 
I  will  save  you  from  this  hated  bridal.  You  shall 
be  mine,  Anastasia —  mine  only,  believe  me." 

"  I  do  —  1  do,"  she  repeated,  fervently. 

"  Be  ready,  then,  as  I  shall  counsel  you,  and 
fear  nothing." 

He  gave  her  directions  for  meeting  him,  made 
his  own  preparations  for  flight,  and  with  mutual 
impatience  they  waited  the  approaching  and  ap 
pointed  evening. 

It  came  —  the  hour  which  had  been  designated 
for  the  marriage  of  Wallenberg.  The  chapel  of 
D'Arlemont  Castle  was  pompously  illuminated  — 
the  company  were  already  assembling  in  crowds, 
and  every  thing  was  gay  comparison,  amusing 
scandal,  and  good-humored  clamor.  There 


172  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

were  aunts  and  uncles,  cousins  and  friends  —  the 
whole  world  of  various  and  motley  elements  which 
such  an  occasion  so  commonly  brings  together. 
At  the  head  of  a  loug  train  of  connexions  and  de 
pendants  came  the  bridegroom,  as  full  of  his  own 
consequence  as  of  impatience  for  the  ceremony. 
The  hour  was  dawing  nigh  for  the  sacrifice  -j- but 
a  voice,  under  the  lattice  of  Anastasia,  said  to  her 
in  a  whisper,  which,  though  soft,  yet  reached  her 
ears  — 

"  Come  —  come  to  me,  beloved  —  I  await  thee, 
Anastasia !" 

A  mournful  but  a  sweet  voice  was  his  —  a  voice 
of  melody  and  love,  —  and  she  answered  it  in 
like  language —  "1  come." 

She  stole  away  by  a  private  passage  into  the 
garden.  She  joined  her  lover,  and  they  fled  from 
the  boundaries  of  her  father's  domain,  long  before 
the  assembled  company  had  dreamed  of  her  ab 
sence. 


V. 


"WHERE  is  she? — where  is  Anastasia,  my 
bride? — why  comes  she  not?"  was  the  demand 
of  Wallenberg.  ,*£ 


THE    STAR    BRETHREN.  173 

Where  was  she,  indeed  ]  The  hour  had  elapsed 
—  the  moment  was  past  —  why  came  she  not,  in 
glittering  robes,  heading,  in  kindred  gladness,  the 
garlanded  group  of  damsels  that  had  gathered  to 
wait  upon  her  ?  The  castle  was  soon  in  commo 
tion,  and  a  strange  anxiety  filled  every  counte 
nance.  The  bridal  chamber  was  empty  —  the 
maiden  was  not  to  be  found.  The  castle  was 
searched  from  turret-top  to  donjon,  but  in  vain. 
They  were  compelled  to  seek  her  elsewhere.  They 
hunted  through  grounds  and  gardens,  dispersing 
every-where,  but  without  success.  They  next 
sought  the  forests.  As  they  penetrated  the  thick 
woods,  the  sky  suddenly  became  dark  and  over 
cast —  vivid  flashes  of  lightning  added  to,  while 
illuminating  and  making  perceptible,  the  gloom. 
A  storm  of  frightful  energy  passed  over  the  wood, 
prostrating  every  thing  before  it,  and  subsiding 
with  equal  suddenness.  The  sky  became  instant 
ly  clear,  and  the  moon  shone  forth  in  purity,  un 
conscious  of  a  cloud.  The  firmament  had  not  a 
speck.  The  bewildered  groups  proceeded  in  their 
search.  A  soft  and  gentle  strain  of  melody  seem 
ed  to  imbody  itself  with  the  winds.  They  follow 
ed  the  sounds  into  a  dark  and  gloomy  enclosure 
of  high  overarching  trees,  thickly  fenced  in  with 
knotted  vines  and  brushwood.  The  thunderbolt 

15* 


174  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

had  been  there,  and  it  was  scorched  and  blackened. 
They  advanced  —  the  music  still  leading  them 
onward — until,  in  a  small  recess,  they  found  in 
dubitable  tokens  of  the  maiden,  in  the  half-con 
sumed  remnants  of  her  hat  and  shawl.  They  now 
beheld  her  destiny.  They  saw  that  she  had  been 
spirited  away  by  the  fiend.  She  had  become  the 
victim  of  the  demon.  He  had  triumphed  in  the 
garb  of  the  early  and  lost  lover  —  and  she  had 
fallen  a  victim,  in  a  moment  of  sad  credulity,  to 
the  arts  of  a  designing  and  an  evil  angel.  They 
continued  the  pursuit  no  longer.  She  was  lost  to 
them  for  ever — but  still  not  lost.  Amid  the  horrors 
of  the  tempest  she  pursued  her  way  with  her  lover. 

"  Oh,  save  me,  Albert  — what  a  dreadful  storm  !" 
was  her  pleading  and  terrified  address,  as  they  hur 
ried  on  through  the  devious  paths  of  the  forest. 
The  violence  of  the  storm  filled  her  heart  with  ap 
prehensions.  She  knew  not  the  fearful  extent  of 
her  security. 

"  T  will — fear  not,  dearest  —  there  is  no  dan- 
ger." 

"  It  pursues  us,"  she  cried,  with  increasing  ter 
ror. 

"  It  will  not  harm  us  —  it  will  soon  be  over," 
was  his  assurance. 

A  stream   of  ground  lightning,  like  a  wave  of 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  175 

the  sea,  rushed  up  the  hill  at  that  moment,  and  fol 
lowed  close  upon  their  footsteps.  The  maiden 
darted  forward  in  desperation  —  Albert  seized  her 
in  his  arms,  and  throwing  aside  her  hat  and  shawl, 
which  encumbered  him,  he  bore  her  away  like  an 
infant.  He  bore  her  to  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
and  laid  her  down  upon  the  greensward  in  safety. 


VI. 


WHEN  she  recovered  from  the  faintness  which 
had  overcome  her,  the  storm  had  passed  away  — 
the  night  was  beautifully  clear.  The  moon  had 
risen,  and  the  gray  forests  looked  sweet  and  hal 
lowed  in  her  light.  A  gentle  strain  of  music  rose 
upon  the  distant  breeze,  and  still  more  contributed 
to  the  soft  loveliness  and  languor  of  the  scene. 

The  bright  eyes  of  Albert  looked  down  into  the 
dewy  orbs  of  Anastasia,  and  she  thought  she 
never  before  had  seen  them  look  so  beautiful.  His 
arm  supported  her,  and  she  fancied  its  pressure  had 
never  been  so  fond  before.  She  was  blest  in  that 
embrace  —  and  fear,  and  sorrow,  and  fatigue,  de 
parted  in  the  consciousness  that  she  then  felt  of 
having  all  that  she  lived  for,  and  all  that  before 
had  been  denied  her  love. 


176  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

"  We  must  proceed,  my  Anastasia — our  dwell 
ing  is  not  far  —  we  can  reach  it  by  the  dawn, 
Our  steeds  are  now  in  waiting." 

While  the  moon  was  yet  shining,  they  stood 
upon  the  rocky  cliffs  which  overhung  a  beautiful 
river.  A  proud  and  lonely  castle  stood  in  sight 
upon  the  highest  crag.  The  stream  glided  below 
it  with  a  pleasant  freshness,  and  rippling  away 
among  the  shelving  rocks,  in  the  placid  moonlight, 
it  seemed  to  the"  eyes  of  the  happy  Anastasia  a 
home  of  faery  —  a  very  heaven  for  the  heart  of 
truest  love. 


VII. 

THE  bird  sings  falsely  who  sings  only  of  sun 
shine.  The  song  must  sometimes  speak  of  clouds. 
Happy  were  the  two  —  happy  in  the  last  degree 
—  in  their  mutual  loves  and  constant  intercourse. 
Albert  was  all  that  Anastasia  could  desire  in  a 
lover —  he  was  fond  —  he  was  gentle.  His  lan 
guage  was  kind,  always  —  and  his  very  whispers 
were  musical.  But  he  was  melancholy  —  he  was 
always  sad  —  even  when  he  was  most  happy.  He 
seemed  never  to  forget  the  mutability  of  happi 
ness.  Yet  his  sadness  was  never  gloom,  nor  did 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  177 

he  at  any  time  complain.  Still,  the  very  fact  that 
he  asked  for  no  sympathy,  and  that  she  knew  not 
how  to  address  herself  for  his  relief —  these  still 
made  her  unhappy.  There  was  yet  another  cause 
of  disquiet  to  the  fond  Anastasia.  Their  dwell 
ing  was  so  lonesome.  True,  Albert  seldom  left 
her,  and  there  were  a  thousand  pleasant  amuse 
ments  which  he  had  provided ;  but  her  heart  was 
too  human  for  such  a  solitude ;  and  the  very  winds 
that  mourned  in  music  through  the  rocky  crevices, 
and  the  gentle  river  that  rippled  sweetly  at  the 
castle's  base,  and  the  sweet  birds  that  carolled  in 
the  groves,  and  the  stars  that  sang  together  har 
moniously  in  their  courses,  all  seemed  to  tell  her 
of  the  many  bright  eyes,  and  cheerful  hearts  and 
voices,  with  which  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
mingle.  These  thoughts  gave  her  some  occa 
sional  annoyances,  but  a  sweet  word  from  Albert 
consoled  her. 

"For  a  time,  dearest,  we  must  keep  in  solitude, 
to  avoid  the  search  which  your  father  will  doubt 
lessly  institute  after  you.  We  must  keep  in  secret 
—  we  must  avoid  all  exposure — and  here  they 
will  not  be  very  apt  1o  seek  us." 

She  was  satisfied  —  she  seemed  to  be  satisfied, 
at  least  — »  and  that  was  something. 


178  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 


VIII. 

One  night  they  walked  along  the  edge  of  the 
precipice,  and  looked  abroad  upon  the  night  and 
river.  The  stars  were  shining  in  profusion,  and 
not  a  breath  murmured  but  harmoniously. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  to  her,  in  a  sad  but  gentle 
tone,  "  tell  me,  Anastasia  —  do  you  not  tire  of 
our  love,  and  the  solitude  to  which  it  dooms  you  ?" 

"  Not  of  our  love,  oh,  no  !  dearest  Albert,  but 
sometimes  I  feel  so  lonesome." 

"  Yet  are  you  not  alone —  am  I  not  with  you 
always  ?  With  you,  dearest,  I  have  no  such  feel 
ing.  You  are  all  to  me,  Anastasia,  and  I  feel  no 
want  when  you  are  absent.  Ah !  feel  like  me,  I 
implore  you,  my  beloved.  When  you  repine 
about  your  solitude,  I  mourn  — I  am  unhappy." 

"Be  not  unhappy,  Albert  —  I  will  repine  no 
longer.  I  feel  that  you  are  all  to  me,  and  where 
fore  should  I  repine  for  any  change  that  may  lose 
me  all  ?" 

"  Wherefore  !"  he  replied — seizing  her  wrist 
with  a  strong  gripe  as  he  pronounced  the  word 
after  her,  with  a  singular  energy.  "  Wherefore  ! 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  179 

indeed  ?  Repine  not,  dearest,  or  you  may  indeed 
lose  all !" 

"  What  mean  you,  Albert  ?"  she  demanded, 
with  some  apprehension. 

"  Look  !"  he  exclaimed ;  and  she  beheld,  even 
as  he  pointed,  where  a  bright  star  shot  away  from 
its  sphere  in  erratic  flight,  bearing  along  with  it  a 
momentary  train  of  glory,  which,  as  it  belonged 
to,  and  came  from,  the  sphere  alone,  was  soon  ex 
tinguished  upon  leaving  it. 

"  Look,"  he  cried,  "  look  at  that  star  !  Be 
not  weary  of  thy  place  of  watch  and  quiet,  lest 
thou  become  extinguished  also.  Thy  sphere  and 
temple  are  in  one  heart  —  thou  canst  not  inhabit 
many." 

He  paused,  and  his  eye  seemed  to  trace  afar 
upon  its  flight  the  pathway  of  the  vanished  star. 
She  looked  at  him  with  anxious  apprehension. 
His  eye  seemed  rapt  in  sorrowful  contemplation, 
and  though  he  shed  no  tear,  the  expression  was 
that  of  a  sublime  and  subdued  sadness.  She 
threw  her  arm  tenderly  around  his  neck,  and  she 
felt  that  a  thrilling  shudder  went  all  through  his 
frame. 

"It  grows  cold  —  let  us  return,  my  beloved," 
she  said  to  him,  fondly. 


180  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

"  Leave  me  for  a  while,  Anastasia —  I  will  come 
to  thee  soon.  Leave  me  now." 

His  words  were  gently  spoken,  but  she  felt  that 
they  were  rather  a  command  than  a  solicitation. 
She  left  him  at  his  bidding  ;  but  ere  she  went,  she 
threw  her  arms  again  about  his  neck,  and  sweet 
and  pure  was  the  kiss  given  by  their  mingling  lips. 
She  went  towards  the  castle  ;  but,  looking  back 
ward  as  she  went,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  a 
bright  and  beautiful  star  moving  across  the  river 
to  the  crag  whereon  he  stood.  At  length  she  be 
held  it  remain  stationary  beside  him,  and  the  dis 
tinct  outline  of  his  person  was  developed  by  its 
rays.  She  turned  away  with  a  strange  terror  — 
she  dared  not  look  again  ;  but  hurried  onward 
with  trembling  steps  to  her  chamber  in  the  castle. 


IX. 


It  was  late  that  night  before  Albert  came  to  the 
chamber,  and  yet  she  had  not  slept.  A  strange, 
sweet  strain  of  music,  wild,  yet  fine,  came  to  her 
ears  at  midnight,  and  soon  after  she  heard  it,  he 
appeared. 

His  looks  were  sad  as  when  she  left  him  —  and 
he  did  not  seem  pleased  to  find  her  watchful. 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  181 

"  Thou  hast  not  slept,  Anastasia  ?" 

"No — I  waited  for  thee,  Albert.  I  can  hope 
for  no  sleep  when  thou  art  absent." 

"  But  sometimes  I  would  have  thee  sleep,  simply 
because  I  am  absent.  Ah,  my  beloved,  would  that 
I  might  sleep,  and  sleep  for  ever,  when  I  can  no 
longer  be  with  thee." 

"  That  music  —  that  sweet  music,  Albert — 
whence  did  it  come  ?" 

"Wilt  thou  not  sleep  now,  my  beloved  ? —  I 
am  with  thee,"  was  the  evasive  reply  ;  and  Anas 
tasia  understood  the  gentle  form  of  chiding  which 
he  had  adopted.  She  obeyed  the  suggestion — 
she  tried  to  sleep,  and  did  sleep,  but  her  slumbers 
were  greatly  broken  —  she  knew  not  why ;  and 
whenever  she  awakened  it  was  to  hear  whispering 
voices  and  sudden  gusts  of  music,  that  seemed  to 
be  passing  around  the  apartment  with  a  rush  of 
wings. 


X. 


IT  was  yet  early  morning  when  Anastasia  awa 
kened  and  beheld  Albert  just  about  to  leave  the 
chamber.  She  called  to  him,  but  he  only  smiled, 
shook  his  head,  waved  his  hand  gently,  and  hur- 

VOL.  i.  16 


182  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

ried  from  her  sight.  She  rose  quickly  from  the 
couch,  and  moved  to  the  window,  from  which  she 
beheld  him  hastening  down  the  rocks.  He  looked 
back  and  caught  her  eye,  and  his  finger  was  raised 
as  if  in  warning.  The  thought  of  the  shooting 
star  came  that  moment  to  her  mind,  and  she  hur 
ried  back  to  her  couch. 

He  returned  about  mid-day,  and  seemed  un 
happy.  He  started  frequently,  and  looked  around 
him,  as  if  in  anxious  expectation  of  the  approach 
of  some  desired  person. 

"  You  are  troubled,  Albert,"  said  Anastasia. 
"  Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you  ?" 

"  Yes !"  was  the  sudden  and  almost  stern  reply. 
"  See  not  that  I  am  troubled.  When  thou  canst 
serve  or  sooth  me,  I  will  seek  thee  ;  —  when  I  do 
not  seek  thee,  Anastasia,  believe  me,  thou  canst 
not  serve  me.  Seem  then  not  to  see  that  I  suffer." 

"  And  thou  dost  suffer,  Albert?" 

"  I  live!"  was  the  terrible  response  ;  and  oh! 
the  immortal  grief  that  looked  forth  in  that  mo 
ment  from  his  eyes. 

"  Would  that  I  could  die  for  thee,  Albert !"  was 
her  exclamation,  as  she  flung  herself  upon  his 
bosom.  He  folded  her  fondly  in  his  embrace, 
while  he  replied  to  her  as  follows  : 

"Thou  canst  better  serve  me  than  by  dying  for 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  183 

me,  Anastasia — and  far  better  serve  thyself.  Livfe 
for  me." 

"  Do  I  not,  dear  Albert  ?" 

"No  —  not  yet — thou  dost  not  live  for  thyself." 

She  looked  up  wonderingly  at  the  speaker — 
he  proceeded,  and  his  voice  was  full  of  solemnity, 
and  there  was  au  intense  earnestness  in  his  face 
which  she  did  not  dare  a  second  time  to  look 
upon. 

"  Love  thy  condition  for  itself.  Seek  not  to 
see,  and  ask  not  to  partake  of,  mine.  Is  there 
any  thing  unknown  to  thee? — it  is  better  forthee 
that  thou  shouldst  not  know  it.  Has  it  come  to 
thee  in  a  dream  that  a  joy  was  in  the  valley  await 
ing  thee,  beyond  any  ever  known  to  thee  before .? 
Turn  thy  footsteps  with  a  fond  solicitude  from  the 
path  which  leads  to  the  valley.  The  dream  was  a 
lying  one,  sent  for  thy  ensnaring.  Thou  wilt  lose 
what  thou  hast,  in  grasping  at  what  thou  hast  not ; 
and  the  very  hope  which  tells  thee  of  a  blessing  to 
come,  steals  a  blessing  from  thee  while  it  does  so. 
Beware,  Anastasia,  that  thy  head  misleads  not  thy 
heart,  and  thy  fancy  consumes  not  thy  feelings. 
Do  we  not  love  each  other,  Anastasia  ?  Couldst 
thou  have  a  fonder  or  a  truer  love  than  mine  ? 
Let  it  suffice  thee  — joy  in  what  thou  hast ;  —  pray 
to  thy  God,  Anastasia  ;  pray  that,  if  thou  dost  not 


184  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 

5^et,  thou  mayest  soon  learn  to  love  thy  condition 
as  thyself —  it  is  more  than  thyself  to  thee." 

He  kissed  her,  and  left  her  with  these  mysteri 
ous  lessons,  over  which  she  pondered  in  doubt  and 
sadness. 


XL 


The  advice  of  Albert  was  good,  but  how  unrea 
sonable.  How  is  it  possible  for  man,  unless  de 
nied  to  hope,  to  be  content  with  his  condition  ? 
How  much  less  possible  for  woman  !  To  be  con 
tent  with  existing  things  is  to  desire  no  change  — 
to  hope  for  nothing  better  —  to  live  without  a 
thought  of  heaven.  The  requisition  of  Albert 
sank  deep  into  the  mind  of  Anastasia,  but  not  to 
produce  the  effect  which  he  desired.  It  came  to 
her  as  a  restraint,  and  not  a  direction — as  a  con 
troller,  and  not  a  guide.  Was  he  to  suffer,  and 
was  she  to  be  denied  to  share  with  him  in  his 
griefs,  to  console  him  under  his  torments  ?  Love 
itself  rose  in  rebellion  against  such  a  requisition. 
And  when  she  beheld  his  sadness  visibly  increase 
with  each  successive  hour,  her  fond  heart  —  her 
sleepless  affections  —  could  no  longer  remain  paci 
fied  and  silent. 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  185 

"  Albert,  dear  Albert,  you  do  me  injustice.  I 
am  strong  to  share  with  you  —  ay,  to  endure  all 
your  afflictions.  I  feel  that  I  love  you  too  well 
not  to  rejoice  in  pain  when  I  know  that  every 
added  sting  to  my  heart  takes  from  that  which  is 
preying  upon  yours.  Unfold  to  me  your  griefs — 
say  what  afflicts  you.  Let  me  hear  the  worst, 
and  you  will  see  how  I  can  smile  to  place  my  hand 
with  yours  in  the  flame,  and,  looking  into  your 
eyes  of  love  the  while,  feel  and  fear  none  of  its 
searching  fires." 

It  was  thus  she  implored  him  for  his  secret — 
her  arms  twining  about  his  neck  in  the  fondest 
embrace  —  her  dark,  sweet  eyes,  looking  with  the 
warmest  devotion  at  the  same  instant  into  his 
own. 

"  You  know  not  what  you  ask,"  was  his  reply. 
"  You  ask  for  wo  —  for  eternal  wo — for  a  doom 
for  which  you  were  never  destined.  Why,  oh  ! 
why  will  you  be  dissatisfied  ?  Have  you  not  my 
love  —  all  my  love  —  my  heart,  truly  and  entirely 
yours  ?  The  love  of  the  unselfish  and  unexacting 
man  —  of  one  who  is  above  meanness  or  its  re 
proach —  is  the  richest  possession  ever  yet  given 
to  the  woman  heart.  Wherefore  would  you  seek 
for  more  ?" 

16* 


186  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

"You  do  not  give  me  your  heart — you  will 
not  give  me  its  sorrows.  It  is  for  these  I  ask." 

"You  have  them,  Anastasia  —  it  is  only  the 
name  you  desire  to  know.  You  have  them  al 
ready." 

"  How  ?" 

"Your  present  care  —  your  anxiety  to  know 
them  —  is  your  sorrow  now.  You  see  that  I  am 
grieved  —  and  you  grieve  to  see  it.  That  is 
enough  for  me,  and  should  be  enough  for  you. 
You  give  me  your  sympathy  when  you  grieve  at 
my  suffering.  You  prove  to  me  your  love  for  me 
when  you  wish  to  see  me  glad.  I  am  satisfied 
with  thus  much  in  the  way  of  proof —  be  you  sa 
tisfied,  dearest  Anastasia,  with  the  degree  of  confi 
dence  I  have  already  shown  you.  Seek  not  to 
hear  more.  I,  who  know  how  much  you  can  con 
sole,  and  how  greatly  you  ought  of  right  to  suffer 
with  me,  deny  you  any  farther  knowledge  of  my 
griefs  than  this.  I  would  not  have  you  even  see 
so  much.  But,  at  least,  I  desire  that  you  should 
seek  to  know  no  more." 

XII. 

Compelled  to  be  silent,  she  yet  remained  unsa 
tisfied.  A  feverish  curiosity  was  gnawing  at  her 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  187 

heart.  What  could  be  the  matter  with  Albert  ? 
Were  they  not  secure  in  their  retreat?  —  was  he 
impatient  so  soon  of  the  pleasant  fetters  which 
love  and  her  fond  arms  had  woven  around  him  ? 
She  conjectured,  vainly,  of  a  thousand  causes  for 
his  suffering,  dismissing,  as  idle,  each  suggestion 
of  her  mind,  as  soon  as  it  presented  itself.  Her 
thoughts  were  sleepless,  and  they  kept  her  so. 
That  night  she  heard  strange  noises  in  her  cham 
ber —  strange  though  slight.  She  had  resolved 
to  keep  awake,  arid  yet,  even  while  she  strove,  it 
seemed  as  if  a  blessed  breeze  came  about  her,  in  a 
murmuring  whisper,  that  glided  into  song  at  length, 
and  filled  the  air  with  a  slumberous  power.  She 
felt  the  sleep  wrapping  her  still  resisting  limbs  as 
with  a  garment  of  melody,  and  though  she  strove 
to  burst  its  fetters,  and  her  eyes  persisted  occasion 
ally  in  looking  forth,  they  were  at  length  com 
pelled  to  yield  the  struggle.  Yet,  ere  they 
closed  entirely,  it  appeared  as  if  a  red  and  lovely 
light,  pointed  and  raying  out  like  a  golden  star, 
wavered  and  flickered  around  the  couch  where 
she  slept,  fondly  clasped  in  the  arms  of  Albert.  It 
was  not  quite  dawn  when  she  awakened  from 
that  sleep,  and  then  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  been 
awakened  by  a  cold  and  sudden  wind,  which  pass 
ed  over  her  face  while  yet  in  a  state  of  dim  and 


188  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

doubtful  consciousness ;  she  felt  the  form  of  Albert, 
which  before  had  lain  quietly  beside  her,  suddenly 
convulsed  as  if  with  spasms  ;  and  when  she  turned 
to  him  and  met  the  glance  of  his  eyes,  they  were 
wild  beyond  description.  They  glanced  sadly, 
and  almost  with  an  expression  of  gloom  upon  her, 
and  she  felt  as  if  he  had  repulsed  her.  But  when, 
under  the  agony  of  that  thought,  she  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  he  returned  her  embrace 
with  a  fondness  that  answered  fully,  if  it  did  not 
exceed,  her  own. 


XIII. 

All  that  day  he  was  absent  among  the  neigh 
boring  rocks  and  woods.  She  had  asked  to  go 
forth  with  him,  but  he  had  resolutely,  though  gen 
tly,  denied  her.  Her  thoughts,  during  his  absence, 
were  all  given,  in  spite  of  her  will,  to  the  one  ab 
sorbing  subject  —  the  mystery  of  his  sorrows. 
By  a  strange  instinct,  her  mind  continually  revert 
ed  to  the  image  of  that  star,  that  seemed  to  cross 
the  river,  and  station  itself  close  beside  him  where 
he  stood.  A  next  and  natural  transition  of  her 
thought  reviewed  the  singular  sensations  which 
she  had  experienced  just  when  sinking  into  slum, 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  189 

her,  and  when  awakening  the  previous  night  and 
morning  ;  and  she  now  remembered,  among  other 
circumstances  which  had  attended  her  sleep,  that 
it  had  followed  soon  after  the  kind  kiss  which  Al 
bert  had  impressed  upon  her  eyes.  The  more  she 
meditated  this  matter,  the  more  perfectly  was  she 
convinced  that  the  kiss  of  Albert  had  produced 
that  obliviousness  which  she  was  so  very  desirous 
to  avoid ;  and,  as  she  was  resolute,  in  spite  of  all 
his  counsels,  to  discover  what  she  could  of  the 
occasion  of  his  sorrows,  she  determined,  if  possi 
ble,  to  escape  the  repetition  of  that  kiss  upon  her 
eyelids  when,  at  a  future  time,  she  desired  that  her 
eyes  might  be  kept  open.  It  is  not  difficult  for  a 
woman  to  effect  her  object  when  she  aims  to  do 
wrong ;  and  it  will  be  seen  that  Anastasia  was 
only  too  successful  in  repressing  sleep  when  her 
husband  desired  to  impose  it  on  her. 

That  very  night  she  determined  to  try  her  ex 
periments  ;  and  accordingly,  as  a  first  step,  she 
aimed  to  set  Albert's  mind  perfectly  at  rest  as  to 
the  degree  of  quiet  which  was  in  hers.  When  he 
returned  to  the  castle,  which  he  did  at  early  even 
ing,  she  received  him  with  the  fondest  and  most 
satisfying  smiles.  Her  good-humor  and  cheer 
fulness,  easy  but  not  obtrusive,  delighted  him,  and 
she  now  saw  the  truth  of  what  he  had  told  her. 


190  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

He  was  happy  as  he  saw  her  happy,  and  his  sad 
ness  passed  away,  leaving  not  the  trace  of  a  cloud 
upon  his  brow,  as,  to  his  eye,  she  appeared  content 
with  her  condition.  Joyfully  —  ay,  with  an  in 
toxication  of  joy  —  he  clasped  her  to  his  bosom, 
and  his  words  were  never  fonder,  and  his  kisses 
never  half  so  sweet.  She  half  resolved,  if  the  ap 
pearance  of  contentment  on  her  part  could  pro 
duce  such  a  vast  improvement  on  his,  to  make  it 
her  study  to  obey  him.  Alas  !  why  have  we  not 
always  the  strength  to  obey  good  impulses  only  ! 

"  Be  ever  thus,  my  Anastasia  —  be  ever  thus, 
and  we  are  most  happy.  You  will  then  see  no 
sorrow  on  my  brow,  and  I  will  secure  you  against 
all  that  might  otherwise  assail  your  heart." 

"  I  will  pray  Heaven  to  be  as  you  wish  me,  Al 
bert.  I  have  little  else  to  pray  for." 

She  retired  for  the  night,  and  he  promised  to 
follow  her  very  soon.  When  she  had  gone,  he 
clasped  his  hands,  and  his  eyes  looked  up  in  hope 
to  the  blessed  starlight  that  came  shining  through 
the  grated  window  of  the  castle.  He  spoke  in 
low  tones  of  soliloquy  as  he  looked  up  to  the 
wheeling  and  flickering  fires. 

"  Let  her  but  continue  thus,  and  I  am  safe. 
There  will  then  be  no  more  wanderings  —  no  more 
flight  —  no  more  incertitude.  I  shall  resume  my 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  191 

station  —  I  shall  ever  more  burn  with  the  fixed 
fires  that  the  winds  move  not  —  that  the  capricious 
seasons  check  not  —  beyond  the  control  of  the 
mortal,  beyond  the  power  and  caprice  of  the  im 
mortal.  Yes,  dearest  Anastasia,  in  thy  constancy 
—  in  thy  content —  in  thy  love  of  thy  condition, 
clamouring  for  no  change-begetting  knowledge,  I 
shall  be  secure,  and  we  shall  both  be  happy." 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  he  retired  to  the 
chamber  of  his  bride. 


XIV. 

She  had  played  her  part  to  admiration —  she 
had  completely  deceived  her  husband.  She  little 
dreamed  of  the  evils  which  spring  from  all  decep 
tion —  even  where  the  end  seems  to  be  most  in 
nocent,  and  where  a  superficial  thought  esteems  it 
praiseworthy.  She  wished  to  know  his  griefs  — 
she  persuaded  herself  because  she  could  then  the 
better  administer  to  and  heal  them.  This  was 
her  duty;  and  so  regarding  it,  she  entirely  forgot 
that  obedience,  in  the  inferior  mind,  is  a  duty  also. 
Albert  was  perfectly  convinced  that  Anastasia 
was  dissatisfied  no  longer.  That  conviction 
brought  back  his  cheerfulness.  His  was  a  pecu- 


192  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 

liar  destiny ;  and  to  be  thought  happy  by  her,  and 
to  make  her  satisfied  with  his  lot,  by  perfect  hap 
piness  in  hers,  was,  according  to  the  terms  of  that 
destiny,  the  condition  of  his  own  happiness.  Be 
lieving  and  confiding,  with  renewed  and  increased 
fondness,  he  leaned  over  her,  as  she  seemed  to 
sleep,  and  sweet  and  long  was  the  fond  kiss  which 
he  pressed  upon  her  parted  lips. 

She  did  not  sleep  —  she  was  watchful.  With  a 
pertinacity  that  did  not  suffer  fatigue  or  pause,  she 
kept  resolutely  awake  until  midnight.  Remem 
bering  the  kiss  upon  her  eyelids  which  her  hus 
band  had  usually  given  her,  and  to  which  she  at 
tributed  the  deep  slumber  which  always  seemed 
to  have  followed  it,  she  contrived  so  to  dispose  her 
arms  as  to  throw  one  of  them  effectually  over  her 
eyes,  and  thus  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  his  lips 
pressing  upon  them.  She  found  the  position  an 
unpleasant  and  tiresome  one  after  a  little  while  ; 
but,  bent  upon  her  design,  she  determined  to  suffer 
the  annoyance  rather  than  forego  her  purpose. 
When  a  woman  once  sets  her  mind  upon  any  thing, 
it  is  no  small  matter  which  is  to  divert  her  from  it. 

Midnight  came  at  last,  to  her  great  satisfaction. 
She  heard  the  clock  of  the  castle  toll  forth  the 
hour  with  a  solemn  emphasis,  and  she  could  scarce 
ly  restrain  the  deep  sigh  of  her  heart  from  forcing 


THE    STAR.    BRETHREN.  193 

its  way  to  a  corresponding  sound  to  her  lips. 
But  she  did  restrain  herself,  and  in  a  moment  after 
she  distinctly  felt  a  cold  wind  rush  through  the 
apartment.  At  that  moment  Albert  half  rose  in 
the  couch,  and  bent  over  her.  She  felt  his  breath 
ing  distinctly  lift  the  lighter  curls  of  her  hair,  and 
*  with  a  keen  ear  he  listened  to  her  respirations.  He 
tried  with  a  gentle  finger  to  detach  her  arm  from 
its  close  place  over  her  eyes  ;  but  the  arm  seemed 
all  at  once  to  have  become  most  obstinately  rigid, 
and  he  failed  in  his  efforts,  in  which  he  did  not 
persevere  for  fear  of  awaking  her.  As  if  satisfied 
that  she  slept,  he  seemed  to  turn  away ;  and  the 
arm,  so  obstinately  immoveable  before,  was  now 
slightly  lifted,  without  being  removed  from  her 
eyes,  and  only  sufficiently  to  enable  her  to  give  a 
single  glance  around  the  apartment.  As  she  had 
seen  before,  she  now  distinctly  beheld  a  shadowy 
outline  at  the  foot  of  the  couch,  in  whose  massive 
brow  a  bright  pale  star  shone  fixedly  and  soft.  A 
moment  more  had  elapsed  when  the  form  of  Al 
bert  became  suddenly  convulsed,  and  she  could 
scarcely  forbear  the  fond  impulse  which  prompted 
her  to  forget  every  precaution,  and  clasp  him  in 
her  arms  ;  but  the  secret  stirred  in  her  mind  at  that 
moment,  and  she  maintained  her  position  and  si 
lence,  though  several  convulsions,  each  successive 
VOL.  i.  17 


194  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

one  more  severe  than  the  preceding,  shook  his  form 
as  with  so  many  dreadful  spasms.  They  were 
scarcely  over  when  a  cold  breath  of  air  seemed 
to  pass  above  her  neck,  and  she  distinctly  felt  the 
body  of  Albert  sink  down  helplessly  beside  her. 
Her  heart  beat  impetuously  —  she  could  scarce 
suppress  her  breathing,  and  nothing  but  the  most 
resolute  determination  enabled  her  to  forbear 
shrieking  aloud.  She  did  forbear,  however  ;  and 
once  more  venturing  to  look  forth,  she  now  dis 
tinctly  beheld  two  shadowy  forms  glide  through 
the  apartment,  with  each  a  red  and  similar  star 
shining  brightly  upon  his  forehead. 


XV. 

Anastasia  could  bear  this  no  longer,  particu 
larly  when,  turning  to  the  side  of  the  couch  where 
Albert  lay,  his  body  was  cold,  corpse-like,  and  im- 
moveable.  Conviction  forced  itself  upon  her — 
the  secret  was  discovered,  and  the  burden  was  in 
supportable.  She  shrieked  aloud  in  her  agony  ; 
she  clasped  the  lifeless  body  in  her  arms,  while  her 
eyes,  addressing  the  star-fronted  shadows  that  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  seemed  to  appeal  to  them 
once  more  for  the  restoration  of  the  inanimate  form 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  195 

beside  her,  With  the  first  accents  of  that  wild 
and  fearful  shriek,  indicating,  as  it  did,  the  sudden 
and  startling  intelligence  which  her  mind  had  re 
ceived,  a  visible  effect  was  produced  upon  the 
strange  aspects  before  her.  While  she  looked, 
she  beheld  one  of  the  stars  rise  slowly,  and  sail 
away  without  obstruction  through  the  spacious 
windows,  while  the  other  wavered  and  flickered 
about  as  if  in  the  gusts  of  an  uprising  storm.  A 
storm,  indeed,  seemed  to  rage  through  the  apart 
ment.  The  shadowy  figure  appeared  to  expand 
into  a  rolling  and  tossing  cloud,  in  the  midst  of 
which,  as  if  it  were  the  centre  of  its  action,  the 
bright  star  now  grew  more  bright,  and  of  a  deeper 
red,  and  shot  forth  the  most  angry  fires  on  every 
side.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  terrors  of  Anas- 
tasia.  The  star  seemed  now  to  approach  her,  and 
gust  after  gust,  like  the  rushing  of  so  many  heavy 
wings,  passed  and  repassed  over  the  couch  where 
she  lay,  lifting  and  rending  its  silken  draper}-. 
She  cried  aloud  once  more  in  her  apprehension. 

"  Forgive,  forgive  me,  dearest  Albert — forgive 
me  that  I  have  offended.  Come  to  me* — be  as 
thou  wert  — I  will  obey  thee  —  I  will  never  offend 
thee  more." 

"  Too  late  —  too  late,"  cried  a  voice  of  sorrow 
rather  than  of  anger  from  the  bosom  of  the  cloud. 


196  THE    STAR   BRETHREN". 

which  now  hung,  like  a  dense  wreath  of  vapour, 
just  above  the  couch  where  she  lay. 

"It  is  too  late,  dearest  Anastasia  —  I  can  re 
turn  to  thee  no  more." 

"  Wherefore  —  wherefore  ?"  was  the  interroga 
tion  of  the  terrified  woman. 

"  It  is  the  doom !"  was  the  hollow  answer  from 
the  cloud  ;  and  the  star  that  still  shone  from  the 
vague  form  before  her  seemed  to  shed  drops  of 
blood,  that  fell  even  upon  the  garments  of  her 
couch,  as  the  mournful  voice  thus  responded  to 
her  inquiry. 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  wherefore  is  this  doom  !"  she 
cried  once  more  to  the  shadow  and  the  star. 

"  Thou  hast  already  asked  too  much.  I  warned 
thee,  my  Anastasia.  Was  it  not  enough  to  know 
that  thou  wert  happy  ?  Why  wast  thou  not  satis 
fied  with  thy  condition  ?  Thou  hast  destroyed  the 
hope  and  the  happiness  of  both  by  thy  impatient 
thirst  after  the  why  and  the  wherefore." 

"  Alas !  and  for  this  are  we  to  be  disunited,  my 
Albert  —  for  so  slight  a  cause  as  this  are  we  to 
lose  the  blessing  we  have  lived  for  ?" 

He  replied  to  her  in  an  allegory. 

"  Does  the  flower  please  thee  ?  —  wherefore  de 
stroy  it  to  know  whence  come  the  scent  and  the 
beauty  f  The  odor  fh'os  when  thou  dost  so  —  and 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN".  197 

the  beauty  fades.  This  is  life  —  this,  always,  the 
happiness  of  the  mortal.  But  thou  art  mortal  no 
longer,  my  Anastasia  —  thou  art  now  destined  to 
share,  even  as  thou  desiredst  it,  the  terrible  doom 
which  is  mine'!" 

"  What  meanest  thou,  Albert  ?"  she  inquired, 
tremblingly,  as  these  fearful  words  reached  her 
ears. 

"Albert  no  longer,"  cried  the  star.  "Thy 
lover  was  a  god!" 

She  sank  from  the  couch  where  she  had  lain  as 
she  heard  these  words,  and  she  now  lay  extended 
along  the  floor. 

"  Rise,  Anastasia,  still  beloved,  though  mine  no 
longer  —  rise,"  said  the  star,  "  and  I  will  tell  thee 
what  is  given  to  thee  to  know." 

She  rose  —  she  stood  tremblingly  in  the  presence 
of  that  fiery  eye  that  looked  down  upon  her,  while 
the  cloud  in  which  it  was  imbedded  hung  over  her 
like  a  protecting  and  mighty  shield.  How  glori 
ous,  how  fearful,  were  the  words  which  followed. 


XVI. 

"When   I  bade  thee  regard  the  flight   from 

heaven  of  a   lovely  star  but  a  few  nights  ago, 
17* 


198 


THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 


Anastasia,  I  called  thee  to  witness  my  own  fate. 
That  star  was  a  kindred  light  with  mine,  seduced 
by  me,  as  I  had  been  seduced,  from  the  sweet  and 
beautiful  abode  where  it  shone,  happy  and  adored, 
on  high.  I  had  my  abode  beside  it,  and  was  the 
worshipped  deity  of  a  mighty  nation.  No  eye 
brighter  then  mine  looked  forth  from  the  eastern 
summits  —  no  more  pure  or  peaceful  planet  gave 
light  to  the  returning  shepherds.  Like  the  star 
whose  flight  I  pointed  out  to  thy  regard,  I  fell  from 
my  place  of  glory,  and  the  secret  of  my  fall  was 
in  the  commission  of  thy  error.  I  was  discontented 
with  my  condition." 

The  spirit-lover  paused,  and  the  hapless  An-as- 
tasia  wrung  her  hands  in  hopeless  misery.  He 
proceeded  — 

"  For  ages,  before  the  birth  of  time,  had  that 
lovely  abiding-place  been  the  assigned  station  from 
which  I  shone.  Millions  of  lovely  spirits  shone 
and  revolved  around  me,  with  a  light  partly  bor 
rowed  from  mine  ;  but  oh  1  how  unapproachably 
inferior  to  me.  I  was  beloved —  I  was  worshipped ; 
but,  like  thee,  Anastasia,  I  knew  not  to  be  content 
in  my  place,  and  incurred,,  in  a  hapless  moment, 
a  doom  not  unlike,  but  far  more  terrible  than 
thine." 

The  maiden  moaned  upon  the  floor  of  the  apart- 


THE    STAR    BRETHREN.  199 

merit,  but  without  the  utterance  of  a  single  word. 
At  that  moment  a  pale  star  sailed  along  by  the 
window,  and  from  the  dim  cloud,  of  which  it  was 
the  centre,  she  heard  a  voice  crying  mournfully — 

11  Come  !" 

Albert  replied  with  a  promise  of  compliance, 
and  the  spectre-glory  floated  away  in  the  distance 
from  her  sight.  He  proceeded  hi  his  narration  : 

"One  night  —  one  fatal  night  —  looking  down 
from  my  place  of  watch,  I  beheld,  in  undisturbed 
quiet  and  loveliness,  the  various  and  the  wondrous 
worlds  around  me.  A  pale  form  passed  hurriedly 
along  upon  one  planet,  the  earth,  and  it  waved  its 
hands,  and  it  shrieked  m  agony,  and  its  cries  of 
sorrow  came  to  my  ears,  even  afar  off  as  was  my 
dwelling.  Thine  was  that  form,  Anastasia — thou 
wert  the  mourner." 

"  Alas  !  alas  PJ  cried  the  hapless  woman  —  but 
she  could  exclaim  nothing  farther. 

"  Thine  was  the  form,  and  such  was  the  agony 
of  thy  piercing .  shriek,  that  inly  I  mourned  for 
thee — I  deemed  it  a  cruel  injustice  that  such  as 
thou  shouldst  suffer.  Thou  wert  so  lovely  and  sa 
sorrowful,  and  the  sweetest  loves  in  the  thoughts 
of  the  blessed,  are  those  which  are  most  allied  ta 
sadness." 

With  these  words  the  spirit  paused  in  his  narra- 


200  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 

tion,  and  the  cloud  in  which  the  eye  hung  and 
shone  now  veered  away  and  approached  one  of  the 
windows  of  the  apartment.  At  the  same  time, 
many  stars,  floating  in  like  forms,  came  before  the 
window,  and  strange  words  passed  between  Albert 
and  the  rest,  in  tones  of  the  most  sweet  but  subdued 
and  melancholy  music.  In  a  few  moments  they 
floated  away  like  the  last,  and  her  companion  again 
approached  and  hung  above  her  in  the  apart 
ment.  He  continued  his  narration : — 

"  With  the  thought  and  the  desire  which  came 
to  me  as  I  surveyed  thee,  Anastasia,  a  dim  and 
giant  form  came  rushing  towards  me,  from  the 
piled  clouds  that  lay  like  so  many  rocks  and  tow 
ers  in  the  northern  horizon.  His  speed  was  like 
that  of  the  lightning  ;  and  he  made  his  way  among 
the  stars  around  me,  obscuring  their  lustre,  and 
scorning  their  obstruction,  with  the  rapid  rush  of 
a  mighty  tempest.  When  he  approached  me,  he 
lay  suspended  on  his  outstretched  wings,  the  cur 
tain  of  which  clouded  the  earth  and  concealed  it 
that  moment  from  my  sight,  and  he  gazed  upon  me 
with  an  air  of  sorrowful  pride,  mixed  with  the  most 
mortifying  expression  of  contempt.  *  I  have  heard 
thy  wish,'  he  cried  —  *  thou  canst  dare  to  regret, 
but  not  to  repair.  Thou  canst  see,  but  thou  hast 
not  the  courage  to  share  the  suffering  which  thou 


THE    STAR    BRETHREN.  201 

Truly,  thou  art  a  generous  spirit  —  noble 
in  the  estimation  of  the  highest,  and  worthy  of  the 
fixed  place  which  thou  holdest.'  Such  were  his 
words  of  scorn,  and  they  touched  my  pride.  *  And 
what  better  fortune  is  thine,  dark  spirit  ?'  I  replied 
to  the  intruder.  '  What  hast  thou  to  boast  beyond 
me — in  what  is  thy  better  portion  ?'  He  answered 
readily,  and  his  voice  went  through  me  with  a 
strange  and  mighty  power,  so  that  I  trembled  in 
the  sphere  in  which  I  had  never  before  been 
shaken. 

"  *  I  am  free,'  was  his  fierce  and  proud  reply. 
'  I  am  free.* 

"  I  heard  his  words  with  a  throbbing  and  speech 
less  admiration,  and  began  to  feel  a  fond  desire 
that  I  too  might  be  free.  I  little  knew  then  the 
nature  of  the  blessing  which  I  sought.  I  little 
thought  that,  to  be  free,  1  should  for  ever  after  be 
alone  ! 

"  But  I  was  not  yet  free,  and  I  replied  to  him 
still  as  the  appointed  servant  of  my  master:  'My 
state  is  glorious  —  my  home  is  one  of  lights,  and 
love,  and  perpetual  flowers ;  and  my  duty  is  only 
to  watch  for  the  Mighty  One.'  He  replied  in 
greater  scorn  — 

"'Thy  home  is  one  of  lights  —  true  —  but 
they  are  spies  which  are  set  upon  thee  to  report 


202  THE    STAR   BRETHREN. 

when  thou  errest  —  the  love  which  is  given  thee 
is  not  given  for  thyself,  but  for  thy  service  —  and 
the  flowers  of  which  thou  art  mad  to  boast  —  look, 
fool,  they  are  woven  into  chains.  Thou  art  a 
slave  but  to  spy  upon  others — thou  art  spied 
upon  thyself,  and  held  worthy  of  love  only  as  thou 
dost  the  appointed  task  of  the  menial.' 

"  He  had  spoken  to  me  a  dreadful  truth  —  so  I 
deemed  it  at  the  time,  and  in  my  thoughts  I  wish 
ed  myself  free — free  as  the  fierce  and  mighty 
form  that  lay  prone  like  a  fearless  giant,  proud 
and  scornful'  in  his  might,  before  my  eyes.  I  wish 
ed  for  freedom,  and  with  the  wish  I  felt  the  golden 
link  melt  away  that  secured  me  in  my  station  — 
the  bands  of  flowers,  which  like  a  chain  had  held 
me  with  a  spell  which  no  foreign  power  or  agency 
could  have  broken,  now,  at  my  single  wish,  were 
relaxed  from  about  me,  and  a  mighty  and  clear 
voice  from  a  world  a  thousand  worlds  above  me, 
came  to  me  like  the  sudden  sound  of  a  trumpet  — 

"'Thou  art  free!' 


XVII. 

"  Dreadful  freedom  !   That  instant  I  felt  myself 
alone.     I  was  detached  from  the  sphere  in  which 


THE    STAR   BRETHREN.  203 

I  had  borne  so  small  a  labour,  and  enjoyed  such  a 
high  and  worshipped  glory,  and  I  floated  away 
into  a  thousand  regions,  and  journeyed  with  the 
mighty  spectre  which  had  seduced  me  to  his  sor 
rows  and  my  own  shame.  But  ere  I  had  utterly 
left  the  sphere  in  which  I  had  dwelt  so  happily 
and  so  long,  I  heard  the  sad  lament  of  my  compa 
nion  stars,  stronger,  yet  more  humble  in  station 
than  myself,  whom  I  had  left  behind  me.  It  was 
a  strain  which  told  me  my  destiny,  and  shaped  out 
my  only  future  hope,  as  it  detailed  my  own  duty 
to  myself  and  to  the  mighty  master. 

"  CHORUS  OF  THE  STAR  BRETHREN.* 
I. 


{ Wo  to  us  and  to  thee, 
Star  most  beloved  — 
Thy  world  and  ours 
Tumbles,  and  falls  abroad  — 
Thou,  in  thy  weakness, 
Brother,  most  erring — 
Thou,  in  thy  loneliness, 
Thou  hast  destroy'd  it ! 


II. 

" '  They  bear  away  — 
They  the  dark  spirits 

Imitated  from  a  chorus  of  spirits  in  the  "  Faust"  of  Goethe 


204  THE    STAR    BRETHREN. 


Whose  pleasure  is  ruin  !  — 
They  bear  away 
The  hope  and  the  harmony 
"Wreck'd  into  nothingness ! 
While  we  weep  over 
The  beauty  that's  lost ! 


III. 

"  '  Mighty  among  the  stars, 
Bright  one,  rebuild  it ! 
In  thy  own  bosom 
Rebuild  it  again ! 
Begin  a  new  being 
With  spirit  unshaken, 
Then  shall  new  music 
Unite  the  now  sunder'd  !' 

"Such  was  the  mournful  anthem  which  my 
brethren  sang  in  sorrow  at  my  departure  and  fall, 
and  whose  strains  followed  me  afar,  and  still  fol 
low  me.  I  hear  them  now ;  and  thou  too,  dearest 
Anastasia,  with  whom  I  had  commenced  that  new 
being,  and  through  whose  beloved  agency  I  had 
hoped  for  my  restoration,  with  thee  beside  me, 
partaking  my  immortality  and  glory  in  that  high 
place  — thou  too  ma3'st  hear  them  now." 

And  she  did  hear,  for  a  gust  of  the  breeze,  that 
seemed  full  of  perfume,  floated  that  moment  by 
the  window,  and  her  ears  distinctly  noted  the  last 
words  of  the  melancholy  and  imploring  anthem  :  — 


THE    STAR    BRETHREN.  205 

"  Mighty  among  the  stars, 
Bright  one  rebuild  it ! 
In  thy  own  bosom 
Rebuild  it  again  ! 
Begin  a  new  being 
With  spirit  unshaken, 
Then  shall  new  music 
Unite  the  now  sunder'd !" 

"  I  had  commenced  that  new  being  with  thee, 
my  Anastasia,  and  hoped  to  have  succeeded  in  my 
labours  ;  but  the  very  danger  which  I  feared,  and 
against  which  I  strove  to  counsel  thee,  has  wrecked 
the  fond  hope  within  my  bosom,  and  now  drives 
me  forth  once  more,  alone,  to  commence  my  toils 
anew.  Thou  wast  not  content  with  thy  condition 
or  with  mine  —  thou  hast  committed  mine  own 
error." 

"  And  is  there  no  forgiveness,  Albert  ?  — let  me 
but  be  tried  once  more,  my  beloved  —  " 

"  Thou  shalt  be  tried,  Anastasia  —  this  is  thy 
doom,  no  less  than  mine.  Thou  hast  striven  to 
know  —  it  is  now  thy  destiny  —  thou  art  now 
doomed  to  partake  of  mine." 

"  Ah  !  happy  —  happy  shall  I  be,  Albert,  if  so 
permitted." 

"  Alas  !  Anastasia,  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is 
—  thou  canst  not  dream  of  its  terrors,"  was  the 
mournful  answer  of  the  spirit  to  the  fond  assuran- 

VOL.  i.  18 


206  THE    STAE   BRETHREN. 

ces  of  the  devoted  woman.  "  Thou  deemest  that, 
to  share  my  destiny,  thou  wilt  still  remain  with 
me." 

"  And  will  it  not  be  so,  my  Albert  ?" 

"Alas!  no!"  was  the  sad  reply.  "It  is  my 
doom  of  loneliness  which  thou  art  to  share  —  my 
doom  of  isolation.  Thou  wilt  not  go  with  me, 
nor  I  with  thee,  yet  we  must  both  go  forth.  Thou 
hast  to  seek,  as  well  as  myself,  for  that  condition 
among  the  mortal  which  is  borne  without  repining, 
and  with  no  desire  of  change.  Make  thyself 
kindred  to  such  a  spirit,  and  thou  livest  with  me 
when  I  rejoin  the  stars." 

She  lay  shrieking  at  the  foot  of  the  cloud,  which 
now  slowly  descended,  and  seemed  to  encircle  her. 

"  Come  !"  exclaimed  a  sober  and  sad,  yet  soft 
accent,  at  the  window ;  and  there,  in  her  sight, 
floated  once  more  the  kindred  star  which  had  fol 
lowed  her  lover ;  she  felt  herself  lifted  from  the 
ground,  and  enveloped  in  a  fold  of  the  softest  and 
the  sweetest  air,  while  the  bright  eye  of  Albert, 
starlike  and  pure,  came  close  to  her  forehead. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  ?"  demanded  Anastasia, 
in  her  bewilderment. 

"  Impress  upon  thee  my  immortality  with  my 
doom,"  was  the  answer ;  and  that  moment  she 
felt  the  star  pressing  like  ice  upon  her  forehead. 


THE    STAR    BRETHREN.  207 

It  seemed  to  sink,  cold  and  chilling,  into  her  very 
brain,  and  she  shrieked  with  the  momentary  agony 
of  that  feeling.  In  another  instant  she  was  re 
leased  from  his  embrace,  and,  whirling  round  with 
a  motion  not  her  own,  she  now  found  herself 
wrapped  in  an  airy  mantle  like  that  of  her  com 
panion,  and  she  was  conscious,  while  floating  away 
—  away  into  the  fathomless  abysses  of  the  air  — 
that  she  shone  from  the  centre  of  a  cloud  like  the 
star  which  had  personified  her  lover.  Her  next 
feeling  was  that  of  utter  isolation.  She  beheld  the 
beautiful  star,  which  she  had  loved  as  a  mortal, 
sailing  along,  with  a  slow  and  steady  light,  above 
the  rocks  and  the  river,  and  she  strove  to  follow 
and  rejoin  it.  But  a  power  restrained  her  move 
ments  and  checked  her  will,  and  she  now  felt  her 
self  borne  unresistingly  in  an  opposite  direction. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  did  she  feel  the  horrible  na 
ture  of  that  destiny  which  she  had  so  passionately 
desired  to  share  with  him.  The  fearful  truth  which 
he  had  uttered  came  like  a  knell  of  agony  to  her 
suffering  soul,  as  she  felt  and  feared,  in  that  deso 
late  moment,  that  she  was  destined  for  ever  after 
to  remain  alone ! 


ONEA  AND  ANYTA. 


18* 


ONEA   AND    ANYTA. 

4- 


i. 


THE  Yemassee  was  no  longer  the  great  nation. 
They  had  set  their  fortunes  upon  a  cast,  and  the 
throw  was  fatal.  Civilization  triumphed.  The 
Carolinians,  in  spite  of  the  sudden  massacres  under 
which  they  had  suffered  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war,  were  at  length  Successful ;  and  at  Coosa- 
whatchie,  or  the  "  town  of  refuge,"  the  Yemas- 
sees  lost  their  best  leaders.  With  these,  they  lost 
all  spirit,  and  their  surviving  warriors  were  unequal 
to  the  task  of  restoring  their  fortunes.  Scattered 
and  without  counsel,  they  yet  fled,  as  if  by  a  com 
mon  instinct,  to  their  sacred  town  of  Pocota-ligo, 
where,  in  the  presence  of  their  priests  and  the  pro 
tection  of  their  gods,  they  had  faint  hopes  yet  of 
effecting  by  prayers  and  superstitious  ceremonies, 
what,  hitherto,  their  own  fearless  valor  had  utterly 


212  ONE  A   AND    ANYTA. 

failed  to  accomplish.  Their  resources  were  now 
nearly  exhausted  —  their  villages  in  flames  ;  and  re 
lying  as  they  had  done,  upon  the  hope  of  obtain 
ing  possession  of  the  chief  city  and  provisions  of 
the  whites,  their  fields  had,  in  the  greater  number 
of  cases,  been  left  without  cultivation.  Their 
Spanish  allies,  always  deceitful,  after  stimulating 
them  to  war,  had  left  them  to  contend  with  it  single 
handed.  On  hearing  of  the  defeat  and  slaughter 
of  the  Yemassees,  such  of  them  as  had  been  sent 
from  St.  Augustine  to  their  succor,  returned  to  the 
shelter  of  its  walls,  under  the  influence  of  a  sudden 
panic.  The  neighboring  Indian  tribes  followed 
the  base  example,  and  either  returned  to  their  fo 
rests,  or  made  concessions,  and  bound  themselves 
by  treaty  to  the  conquerors,  giving  hostages  for 
their  future  good  behavior.  Not  so  with  the  un 
happy  Yeniassees.  They  were  still  too  proud  to 
beg  for  that  peace,  which  they  yet  needed  more 
than  all,  and  which  alone  could  save  them  from  ex 
termination.  They  were  too  brave  to  desire  peace 
when  their  slain  brothers  remained  unavenged. 
They  resolved,  therefore,  to  carry  on  the  struggle 
to  the  last ;  and,  crowding  into  the  holy  town  of 
Pocota-ligo,  they  proceeded  to  strengthen  them 
selves  in  their  position,  as  well  as  they  might, 
there  to  await  the  approach  of  the  Carolinians. 


ONE  A    AND    ANYTA.  213 

They  fortified  the  town,  somewhat  after  the  fashion 
of  the  European  settlers,  with  the  trunks  of  trees 
and  the  larger  branches,  rudely  bedded  together. 
This  done,  divided  between  hopes  and  fears,  they 
passed  the  brief  time  which  elapsed  between  their 
preparations  and  the  assault.  They  had  not  long  to 
wait.  Their  defences,  which,  manned  by  Euro 
peans,  and  against  savages,  might  have  proved 
adequate  to  their  purposes,  proved  no  barrier 
against  the  pursuer.  The  impetuous  onset  of  their 
sanguine  assailants  could  not  be  withstood  by  those, 
made  already  apprehensive  by  previous  experience, 
of  the  result;  and  their  frail  bulwarks  were  stormed, 
and  Pocota-ligo  in  flames,  in  the  same  fearful  hour 
of  assault.  The  scene  was  terrible;  but,  though 
despairing,  the  Indians  did  not  think  of  flight. 
The  men  fell,  and  the  women  filled  their  places. 
A  dreadful  massacre  ensued  :  naked  and  howling, 
but  tearing  and  rending  as  they  ran,  men,  women, 
and  children,  darted  to  and  from  the  blazing  dwell 
ings,  shrieking  for  that  revenge  which  they  could 
obtain  in  part  only.  The}'  neither  gave  nor  asked 
for  quarter ;  and  in  the  darkness  of  night  and  the 
confusion  of  the  scene,  they  were  enabled  to  pro 
tract  the  conflict  with  the  success  which  must  al 
ways  follow  courage,  and  the  valor  of  men  fighting 
fearlessly  for  their  homes.  Through  the  night  the 


214  ONE  A    AND    ANYTA. 

battle  lasted,  but  as  soon  as  the  day  broke  upon 
them,  the  struggle  was  over.  The  first  glimpses 
of  the  morning  found  the  bayonet  at  the  heart  of 
the  few  surviving  warriors,  who  still  lived,  but  only 
at  the  mercy  of  those  to  whom  in  all  their  successes 
they  had  shown  no  mercy.  But  few  of  them  es 
caped.  Before  sunrise,  the  fight  was  ended,  and 
the  great  nation  of  the  Yemassees  was  stricken  from 
existence. 


II. 


On  the  eastern  banks  of  the  Isundiga,  or  Sa 
vannah  river,  there  is  a  lofty  tumulus,  which  the 
insidious  waters  of  the  stream  have  long  since  be 
gun  to  undermine.  On  the  summit  of  this  tumu 
lus,  the  morning  after  the  termination  of  this  fatal 
combat,  stood  a  Yemassee  warrior.  The  blood 
upon  his  visage — his  torn  garments  and  broken 
instruments  of  war,  sufficiently  testified  to  the  re 
cent  strifes  in  which  he  had  been  engaged.  It 
was  Echotee,  a  valiant  chief,  who  stood  upon  the 
tumulus.  His  limbs  were  weary  with  toil  and 
flight  —  his  eye  was  dim,  and  the  melancholy  sad 
ness  of  the  Indian  mouth  was  heightened  into  hate 
and  anguish.  He  busied  himself  in  fitting  new 


ONEA    AND    ANYTA.  215 

sinews  to  his  bow,  and  sharp  flint  heads  to  his  ar 
rows.  The  hunting  shirt  which  he  wore — a  finely 
dressed  buckskin  of  the  brightest  yellow,  fantasti 
cally  inwrought  with  shells  and  beads — such  deco 
rations  as  the  tasteful  woman,  Hiwassee,  his  wife, 
had  fondly  chosen  for  the  purpose — was  torn  in 
many  places,  and  spots  of  the  darkest  red  were 
contrasted  with  the  bright  yellow  of  the  garment. 
Wounded,  lone,  and  sorrowing,  yet  Echotee  did 
not  despair.  His  eye  had  exile  in  it,  but  not  fear ; 
neither  did  he  despond.  Firmness  and  manly 
resolution  shared  with  sorrow  the  habitations  of 
his  soul.  Anxiously,  at  moments,  he  looked  to 
wards  the  forests  behind  him,  as  if  in  expectation  ; 
but  their  dark  intricacies  uttered  no  sound  or 
voice,  and  he  turned  his  eyes  away  in  disappoint 
ment.  Then,  after  a  brief  pause,  taking  his  way 
down  from  the  tumulus,  he  moved  to  a  little  stream 
let  that  trickled  at  the  foot  of  the  mound,  and  pass 
ing  partially  through  it,  at  length  made  its  way  to  the 
bosom  of  the  Isundiga.  Stooping  to  the  stream, 
he  drank  freely  of  its  waters ;  then,  returning  has 
tily  to  the  mound,  he  proceeded,  with  a  slender 
shingle,  with  which  he  had  provided  himself,  to  dig 
an  opening  in  the  hillock,  as  if  contemplating  a 
place  of  sepulture.  While  he  dug,  he  sang  in  a 


216 


ONEA    AND    ANYTA. 


low  but  unsubdued  tone,  a  chant,  in  which  he  la 
mented  the  fortunes  of  his  fellows  :  — 

"  They  are  gone,  and  the  night  covers  them. 
My  feet  have  no  companion  in  the  chase — the 
hollow  woods  speak  to  me  with  the  voices  of 
shadows  —  there  is  no  life  in  their  sounds.  Where 
art  thou,  Washattee  —  where  speedest  thou,  whom 
none  yet  has  overtaken.  On  the  far  hills  that  rise 
blue  at  the  evening  I  see  thee  —  thou  hast  found  the 
valley  of  joy,  arid  the  plum-groves  that  are  ever  in 
bloom.  But  who,  brother,  shall  gather  thy  bones — 
who  take  care  of  thy  spirit  —  where  shall  the 
children  look,  when  they  seek  for  thy  grave.  Thou 
art  all  untended  in  the  green  valleys,  and  the  ghosts 
of  the  slain  bend  over  thee  with  many  frowns. 
Comes  she,  the  maid  of  thy  bosom,  to  dress  the 
board  of  the  hunter  ?  Brings  she  at  evening  thy 
venison  ?  When  the  night  is  dark,  and  the  brown 
vulture  stoops  on  thy  path,  and  snuffs  up  blood  of 
thy  spilling,  I  fear  for  thee,  my  brother.  Thou 
canst  not  sit  in  the  green  valley,  for  the  warrior 
lives  who  has  slain  thee,  and  mine  arrow  may  reach 
him  not.  Yet  will  I  sing  for  thee,  Washattee  —  I 
will  sing  for  thee  thy  death-song,  and  tell  the  ghosts 
who  frown,  of  thy  many  victories ;  thou  wert  mighty 
in  the  chase — the  high  hills  did  not  overcome 
thee.  Thy  boyhood  was  like  the  manhood  of 


V 
ONE  A   AND   ANYTA.  217 

other  men  —  thou  didst  not  creep  in  thy  childhood. 
From  the  first,  thy  feet  were  strong  to  walk,  and 
what  speed  of  the  warrior  was  like  unto  thine  ? 
Well  did  they  call  theethe  young  panther — the  eye 
and  the  might  of  the  young  panther's  mother  was 
thine.  The  strong  tide,  when  thou  swammest, 
bore  thee  not  back — thou  didst  put  it  by  like  an 
infant.  In  the  chase,  thou  wert  an  arrow  which 
laughs  at  the  bird's  wing  —  in  the  battle,  thou  wert 
a  keen  tooth  that  goes  deep  in  the  heart.  Thus 
said  the  Muscoghee,  when  his  eyes  swam  in  the 
cloud  as  he  lay  under  thy  knee — thus  said  the 
Catawba,  when  thy  hand  struck  through  the  long 
willows  by  the  lake  of  Sarattay.  The  ghosts  of 
the  Muscoghee  and  the  Catawba  shall  wait  for  thy 
coming,  and  meet  thee  to  serve,  when  thine  eye 
opens  upon  the  green  valley,  and  thy  shadow  darts 
forward  on  the  silent  chase.  But  thou,  oh  Yemas- 
see  —  thou  of  the  broad  arrow  and  the  big  wing 
—  it  is  sad  for  thee  when  none  but  Echotee  may 
stand  up  for  thy  people.  Thy  wing  is  down 
among  the  reeds  that  lie  beside  the  river  —  thy 
broad  arrow  is  broken  on  the  plain.  Thy  shadow 
grows  small  upon  thy  tumulus,  and  I  speak  thy 
name  in  a  whisper.  Opitchi-manneyto  looks  on 
thee  in  wrath.  He  joyed  in  the  last  cry  of  Sa- 
nutee  —  he  joyed  when  the  death-song  came  thick 
VOL.  i.  19 


218  ONE  A   AND   ANY/TA. 

from  the  lips  of  Chigilli — -he  joyed  when  the  pale 
faces  cut  the  sinews  in  thy  thousand  arms.  Who 
shall  sing  thy  greatness,  Yemassee  —  what  warrior 
to  come  after  ?  What  woman  with  long  hair  shall 
creep  through  the  forest,  looking  in  the  evening 
for  thy  scattered  bones?  Who  shall  scare  the 
wolf  from  thy  carcass,  as  he  tears  thy  flesh  beneath 
the  moon.  The  fox  burrows  under  the  hearth  of 
the  hunter,  and  there  is  no  fire  to  drive  him  away. 
Silence  lives  lonely  in  thy  dwelling.  Thou  art 
gone.  Spirit  of  many  ages  !  thy  voice  is  sunk 
into  a  whisper ;  and  thy  name,  it  is  an  echo  on  the 
hill  tops.  Thy  glories  are  the  graves  of  many 
enemies,  but  thy  own  grave  is  unknown." 

The  death-chant  of  the  warrior  was  broken.  A 
sudden  cry  of  sorrow  reached  his  edrs  from  the 
neighboring  woods,  and  was  immediately  suc 
ceeded  by  the  appearance  of  about  thirty  other 
Indians,  of  both  sexes,  emerging  from  the  shadowy 
umbrage.  These  were  all  that  were  left  of  his 
nation.  Echotee  looked  on  them  for  an  instant 
with  sudden  interest,  but  his  eyes  were  again  as  in 
stantly  dropped  upon  the  ground,  and  his  hands 
continued  to  labor  upon  the  grave  which  he  had 
begun.  Meanwhile  the  Indians  advanced,  bearing 
along  with  them,  from  the  woods,  the  dead  body 
of  a  warrior.  This  was  Washattee,  the  warrior 


ONEA    AND    ANYTA.  f          219 

whose  death-song  had  been  just  sung  by  his  bro 
ther.  Beside  this,  Echotee  gave  no  other  sign  of 
sorrow.  No  trace  of  that  grief  which  might  be 
supposed  natural  to  his  uttered  lamentations,  was 
visible  in  his  action  or  face.  His  words  seemed 
to  fall  from  lips  of  marble.  His  was  the  majesty 
of  wo,  without  its  weakness. 

Washattee  had  fled  with  the  few  survivors  from 
the  fatal  field  of  Pocota-ligo ;  but  his  wounds  were 
fatal,  and  he  only  fled  from  a  quick  to  a  protracted 
form  of  death.  He  perished  in  the  forests  when, 
no  longer  in  danger  from  the  pursuing  foe.  They 
were  now  to  bury  him.  The  ceremonies  of  burial 
among  the  savages  are  usually  simple.  The  war 
riors,  as  they  assisted  to  deposite  their  comrade  in 
the  grave,  chanted  over  him  a  song,  not  unlike 
that  which  has  already  been  recited.  They  enu 
merated  his  victories  over  the  Catawba,  the  Mus- 
coghee,  and  other  nations  —  his  particular  successes 
in  the  chase ;  and  their  only  and  common  regret 
was,  that  his  death  had  not  been  avenged  in  the 
blood  of  the  victor.  While  they  sang,  Echotee, 
who  remained  silent  all  the  while,  placed  beside 
him,  in  the  grave,  his  bow,  his  arrows,  knife,  pipe, 
and  a  plentiful  supply  of  flint  arrow-heads,  to  meet 
the  emergencies  of  the  chase  in  the  shady  vallies, 
to  which,  according  to  their  faith,  his  steps  were 


220  ONEA    AND    ANYTA. 

already  bending.  This  done,  and  the  soft  mould 
heaped  upon  him,  after  a  brief  consultation,  they 
stepped  one  by  one  into  the  order  of  march  known 
as  the  Indian  file,  making  but  one  footstep  for  the 
eyes  of  the  pursuer,  and  followed,  at  equal  distan 
ces,  the  guidance  of  the  brave  Echotee.  By  the 
side  of  the  latter,  came,  in  tears,  the  young  and 
beautiful  Hiwassee,  the  maiden  who,  but  a  little 
time  before,  had  broken  with  him  the  wand  of 
marriage  —  the  sacred  wand  of  Checkamoysee. 
To  the  deeper  western  forests  they  bent  their  way, 
and  the  shadows  of  evening  soon  sank  behind  them 
like  a  wall,  separating  them  forever  from  their  na 
tive  homes. 


in. 


Many  years  had  now  elapsed,  and  men  ceased  to 
remember  the  once  noble  nation  of  the  Yemassees 
—  once  the  most  terrible  and  accomplished  people 
of  the  southern  forests.  They  had  even  gone  out 
of  the  memories  of  their  ancient  enemies,  the 
Creeks  ;  and  the  Carolinians,  while  in  the  full  en 
joyment  of  the  fertile  lands  which  had  been  their 
heritage,  had  almost  entirely  forgotten  the  hard 
toils  and  fearful  perils  by  which  they  had  been  ac- 


. 

ONEA   AND   ANYTA.  221 

quired.  It  was  in  the  morning  of  a  bright  day  in 
October,  that  a  small  Indian  canoe  might  have 
been  seen  ascending  the  river  St.  Mary,  tip  to  its 
source  in  the  Okeefanokee  swamp,  a  dismal  region, 
which  lies  between  the  Ockmulgee  and  Flint  rivers, 
in  the  state  of  Georgia. 

There  were  but  two  persons  in  the  canoe,  both 
Indian   hunters  of  the  Creek  nation  ;  a  gallant 
race,   well  known  for   high  courage  among  the 
tribes,  and  distinguished  not  less  by  their  wild 
magnanimity  and  adventure,  than  by  their  daring 
ferocity.     The  warriors   were   both  young,  and 
were  numbered,  and  with  strict  justice,  among  the 
elite  of  their  people.     At  peace,  for  the  first  time 
for  many  seasons,  with  all  around  them,  they  gave 
themselves  up  to  the  pleasures  of  the  chase,  and 
sought,  in  the  hardy  trials  of  the  hunt  for  the  bear 
and  the  buffalo,  to  relieve  the  inglorious  and  un 
welcome  ease  which  this  novel  condition  of  things 
had  imposed  upon  them.     Our  two  adventurers, 
forsaking  the  beaten  track,  and  with  a  spirit  tend 
ing  something  more  than  customary  to  that  which 
distinguishes  civilization,  had  undertaken  an  ex 
ploring  expedition   into  the  recesses  of  this  vast 
lake  and  marsh,  which,  occupying  a  space  of  near 
ly  three  hundred  miles  in  extent,  and  in  very  rainy 
seasons  almost  completely  inundated,  presented, 
19* 


• 

222  ONE A    AND    ANYTA. 

amidst  the  thousand  islands  which  its  bosom  con 
ceals,  fruitful   and  inviting  materials  for  inquiry 
and  adventure.     Girt  in  with  interminable  forests, 
the  space  of  which  was  completely  filled  up  with 
umbrageous  vines  and  a  thick  underwood,  the  trial 
was  one  of  no  little  peril,  and  called  for  the  exer 
cise  of  stout  heart,  strong  hand,  and  a  world  of 
fortitude  and  patience.     It  was  also  the  abiding- 
place  of  the  wild   boar   and   the   panther — the 
southern  crocodile  howled  nightly  in  its  recesses  — 
and  the  coiled  snake,  ever  and  anon,  thrust  out  its 
venomous  fangs  from   the  verdant  bush.     With 
words  of  cheer  and  mutual  encouragement,  the 
young  hunters  made  their  way.     They  were  well 
armed  and  prepared  for  all  chances ;  and  fondly 
did  they  anticipate  the  delight  which  they  would 
entertain,  on  relating  their  numerous  adventures 
and  achievements,  by  field  and  flood,  to  the  assem 
bled  nation,  on  the  return  of  the  ensuing  spring. 
They  took  with  them  no  unnecessary  incumbran- 
ces.     The   well  tempered  bow,   the  chosen   and 
barbed  arrows,  the  curved  knife,  suited  to  a  transi 
tion  the  most  abrupt,  from  the  scalping  of  the  ene 
my  to  the  carving  of  the  repast,  and  the  hatchet, 
fitted  to  the  adroit  hand  of  the  hunter,  and  ready 
at  his  back  for  all  emergencies,  were  the  principal 
accoutrements  of  the  warriors.      They  troubled 


ONEA    AND    ANYTA.  223 

themselves  not  much  about  provisions,     A  little 
parched  corn   supplied   all  wants,  and  the   dried 
venison   in  their  pouches  was  a  luxury,  taken  on 
occasion  only.     They  knew   that,  for  an  Indian, 
the  woods  had  always  a  pregnant  store  ;  and  they 
did  not  doubt  that  their  own  address,  in  such  mat 
ters,  would  at  all  times  enable  them  to  come  at  it. 
Dreary,  indeed,  was  their  progress.     An  Euro 
pean  would  have  despaired  entirely,  and  given  up 
what  must  have  appeared,  not  merely  a  visionary 
and  hopeless,  but  a  desperate  and  dangerous  pur 
suit.     But  the  determination  of  an  Indian,  once 
made,  is  unchangeable.     His  mind  clothes  itself 
in  a  seemingly  habitual  stubbornness,  and  he  is 
inflexible  and  unyielding.    Though  young,  scarce 
ly  arrived  at  manhood,  our  warriors  were  too  well 
taught  in  the  national  philosophy,  to  have  done 
any  thing  half  so  womanlike  as  to  turn  their  backs 
upon  an  adventure,  devised  coolly,  and  commenced 
with  all  due  preparation.     They  resolutely  pursued 
their  way,  unfearing,    unswerving,    unshrinking. 
The  river  narrowed  at  length  into  hundreds  of  di 
verging  rivulets,  and,  after  having  run  their  canoe 
upon  the  sands,  they  were  compelled  to  desert  itr 
and  pursue  their  farther  way  on  foot.     They  did 
not  pause,  but  entered  at  once  upon  the  new  labor; 
and  now  climbing  from  tree  to  bank  —  now  wading 


224          ONEA  AND  ANYTA. 

along  the  haunts  of  the  plunging  alligator,  through 
pond  and  mire —  now  hewing  with  their  hatchets 
a  pathway  through  the  thickest  branches,  they 
found  enough  to  retard,  but  nothing  to  deter  them. 
For  days  did  they  pursue  this  species  of  toil,  pass 
ing  from  island  to  island  —  alternately  wading  and 
swimming — until  at  length,  all  unexpectedly,  the 
prospect  opened  in  strange  brightness  and  beauty 
before  them.  They  came  to  a  broad  and  love 
ly  lake,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  forest, 
through  a  portion  of  which  they  had  passed  with 
so  much  difficulty,  and  to  which  the  storms  never 
came.  It  lay  sleeping  before  them  with  the  calm 
of  an  infant,  and  sheltered  by  the  wood,  the  wild 
vine,  and  a  thousand  flowers.  In  the  centre  rose 
a  beautiful  island,  whose  shores  were  crowned  with 
trees  bearing  all  species  of  fruit,  and  emitting  a 
most  grateful  fragrance.  The  land  was  elevated 
and  inviting,  and,  as  they  looked,  the  young  war 
riors  conceived  it  the  most  blissful  and  lovely  spot 
of  earth.  Afar  in  the  distance,  they  beheld  the 
white  habitations  of  the  people  of  the  strange  land, 
but  in  vain  did  they  endeavor  to  reach  them. 
They  did  not  seek  to  adventure  into  the  broad  and 
otherwise  inviting  waters ;  for  occasionally  they 
could  behold  the  crocodiles,  of  the  largest  and 
fiercest  class,  rising  to  the  surface,  and  seeming  to> 


OXEA    AND    ANYTA.  225 

threaten  them  with  their  unclasped  jaws,  thickly 
studded  with  their  white  sharp  teeth.  While  in 
this  difficulty,  they  beheld  a  young  maiden  waving 
them  on  the  opposite  bank ;  and  Onea,  the  young 
est  of  the  two  hunters,  attracted  by  the  incompa 
rable  beauty  of  her  person,  would  have  leapt  with 
out  scruple  into  the  lake,  and  swam  to  the  side  on 
which  she  stood,  but  that  his  more  grave  and  cau 
tious  companion,  Hillaby,  restrained  him.  They 
observed  her  motions,  and  perceived  that  she  direct 
ed  their  attention  to  some  object  in  the  distance. 
Following  her  direction,  they  found  a  small  canoe 
tied  to  a  tree,  and  sheltered  in  a  little  bay.  Into  this 
they  entered  fearlessly,  and  putting  out  their  pad 
dles,  passed  in  a  short  time  to  the  opposite  shore, 
the  beauty  of  which,  now  that  they  had  reached 
it,  was  even  more  surpassingly  great  than  when 
seen  afar  off.  Nor  did  the  young  Indian  maiden, 
in  the  eye  of  the  brave  Onea,  lose  any  of  those 
charms,  the  influence  of  which  had  already  pene 
trated  his  inmost  spirit.  But  now  she  stood  not 
alone.  A  bright  young  maiden  like  herself  ap 
peared  beside  her,  and,  taking  the  warriors  by  the 
hand,  they  sung  sweet  songs  of  pleasure  in  their 
ears,  and  brought  them  the  milk  of  the  cocoa  to 
refresh  them,  and  plucked  for  them  many  of  the 
rich  and  delightful  fruits  which  hung  over  their 


226  ONEA    AND    ANYTA. 

heads.  There  were  oranges  and  dates,  and  cakes 
made  of  corn  and  sugar,  baked  with  their  own 
hands,  which  they  cordially  set  before  them.  Ma 
ny  were  the  sweet  glances  and  precious  sentences 
which  they  gave  to  the  young  warriors,  and  soon 
did  the  gallant  Creeks  understand,  and  gladly  did 
they  respond  to  their  kindness.  Long  would  they 
have  lingered  with  these  maidens,  but,  when  their 
repast  had  ended,  they  enjoined  them  to  begone  — 
to  fly  as  quickly  as  possible,  for  that  their  people 
were  cruel  to  strangers,  and  the  men  of  their  na 
tion  would  certainly  destroy  them  with  savage  tor 
tures,  were  they  to  return  from  the  distant  chase 
upon  which  they  had  gone,  and  find  the  intruders. 
"  But  will  they  not  give  you,"  said  the  fearless 
Onea,  "  to  be  the  bride  of  a  brave  warrior?  I  shame 
not  to  speak  the  name  of  my  nation.  They  are 
men,  and  they  beg  not  for  life.  I,  myself,  am  a 
man  among  my  people,  who  are  all  men.  They 
will  give  you  to  fill  my  wigwam.  I  will  do  battle 
for  you,  Anyta,  with  the  knife  and  the  bow  ;  I 
will  win  you  by  the  strong  arm,  if  the  strange 
warriors  stand  in  the  path."  "  Alas,"  said  the 
young  girl,  "  you  know  not  my  people.  They 
are  tall  like  the  pine  trees,  which  rise  above  other 
trees  ;  they  look  down  upon  your  tribe  as  the  prai 
rie  grass  that  the  buffalo  tramples  down,  and  the 


ONEA    AND    ANYTA.  227 

flames  wither.  The  sun  is  their  father  —  the  earth 
their  mother  —  and  we  are  called  the  daughters  of 
the  sun.  They  would  dash  you  into  the  flames,  if 
you  told  them  of  a  lodge  in  the  Creek  wigwam 
for  a  maiden  of  our  tribe." 

"  The  Creek  is  a  warrior  and  a  chief,  Anyta, 
and  he  will  not  die  like  a  woman.  He  can  pluck 
out  the  heart  of  his  foe  while  he  begs  upon  the 
ground.  I  fear  not  for  your  people's  anger,  but  I 
love  the  young  maid  of  the  bright  eye  and  sunny 
face,  and  would  take  her  as  a  singing-bird  into  the 
lodge  of  a  great  warrior.  I  will  stay  in  your  cabin 
till  the  warriors  come  back  from  the  hunt.  I  am 
no  fox  to  burrow  in  the  hill  side." 

"  You  will  stay  to  see  me  perish,  then,  Onea," 
said  the  girl  —  a  gleam  of  melancholy  shining 
from  her  large  dark  eyes  —  "  for  my  people  will 
not  let  me  live,  when  I  speak  for  your  life." 

"  See  you  not  my  bow  and  arrows,  Anyta  ?  Is 
not  the  tomahawk  at  my  shoulder  ?  Look,  my 
knife  is  keen  —  the  sapling  may  speak." 

"Your  arm  is  strong,  and  your  heart  true,  you 
would  say  to  Anyta;  but  what  is  one  arm,and  what 
are  thy  weapons,  to  a  thousand?  You  must  not 
linger,  Onea;  we  will  put  forth  in  the  little  canoe. 
I  will  steer  to  a  quiet  hollow,  and  when  thou  art 


228  ONE A    AND    ANYTA. 

in  safety  I  will  leave  thee,  and   return   to  thee 
again." 


IV. 


IT  was  with  difficulty  the  hot-headed  Onea  was 
persuaded  to  comply  with  the  suggestions  of  pru 
dence,  and  nothing  but  a  consideration  for  the 
safety  of  the  maiden  had  power  to  restrain  his  im 
petuosity.  But,  assured  that,  in  the  unequal  con 
test  of  which  she  spoke,  his  own  individual  zeal 
and  valor  would  prove  unavailing,  he  submitted, 
though  with  evident  ill  grace,  to  her  directions. 
A  like  scene  had,  in  the  meanwhile,  taken  place 
between  Hillaby  and  Henamarsa,  Anyta's  lovely 
companion,  which  was  attended  with  pretty  nearly 
the  same  results.  A  mutual  understanding  had  the 
effect  of  providing  for  the  two  warriors  in  the  same 
manner.  Entering  once  more  the  canoe  in  com 
pany  with,  and  under  the  guidance  of  their  mis 
tresses,  they  took  their  way  down  the  lake,  until 
they  lost  sight  of  the  island  on  which  they  had 
first  met.  They  kept  on,  until,  far  away  from  the 
main  route  to  the  habitations  of  the  tribe,  they 
came  to  a  beautiful  knoll  of  green,  thickly  covered 
with  shrubbery  and  trees,  and  so  wrapt  from  the 


ONE A   AND    ANYTA.  229 

passing  glance  of  the  wayfarer,  lay  the  circuitous 
bendings  of  the  stream,  as  to  afford  them  the  safe 
ty  and  secrecy  they  desired.  The  maidens  in 
formed  them  that  they  alone  were  in  possession  of 
the  fact  of  its  existence,  having  been  cast  upon  it 
by  a  summer  tempest,  while  wandering  over  the 
rippling  waters  in  their  birchen  canoe.  They 
found  it  a  pleasant  dwelling-place.  The  wild 
fruits  and  scented  flowers  seemed  to  have  purpose 
ly  embellished  it  for  the  habitation  of  content  and 
love,  and  the  singing  birds  were  perpetually  car- 
roling  from  the  branches.  The  vines,  thickly  in 
terwoven  above  their  heads,  and  covered  with 
leaves,  afforded  them  the  desired  shelter ;  and 
gladly  did  they  appropriate,  and  sweetly  did  they 
enjoy,  its  pleasures  and  its  privacies.  But  the  day 
began  to  wane,  and  the  approaching  evening  indi 
cated  the  return  of  the  fierce  warriors  from  the 
chase.  With  many  vows,  and  a  tender  and  sweet 
sorrow,  the  maidens  took  their  departure  for  the 
dwellings  of  their  people,  leaving  the  young 
chiefs  to  contemplate  their  new  ties,  and  the  novel 
situation  in  which  they  had  placed  themselves. 
Nor  did  the  maidens  forget  their  pledges,  or  prove 
false  to  their  vows.  Day  after  day  did  they  take 
their  way  in  the  birchen  bark,  and  linger  till 
evening  in  the  society  of  their  beloved.  The 
VOL.  i.  20 


230  ONEA   AND   ANYTA. 

hours  passed  fleetly  in  such  enjoyments,  and  happy 
months  of  felicity  only  taught  them  the  beauty 
of  flowers  and  their  scents,  and  the  delights  of  an 
attachment  before  utterly  unknown.  But  the  wing 
of  the  halcyon  ceased  to  rest  on  the  blessed  island. 
Impatient  of  inactivity,  the  warrior  Hillaby  came 
one  day  to  the  vine-covered  cabin  of  Onea ;  his 
looks  were  sullen,  and  his  language  desponding. 
He  spoke  thus  : 

"  It  is  not  meet,  Onea,  that  the  hawk  should  be 
clipped  of  his  wings,  and  the  young  panther  be 
caged  like  a  deer;  let  us  go  home  to  our  people. 
I  am  growing  an  old  woman.  I  have  no  strength 
in  my  sinews  —  my  knees  are  weak." 

"  I  would  go  home  to  my  people,"  replied 
Onea,  "  but  cannot  leave  the  young  fawn  who  has 
taken  shelter  under  my  protection.  And  will 
Hillaby  depart  from  Henamarsa  ?" 

"  Hillaby  will  depart  from  Henamarsa,  but  Hill 
aby  has  the  cunning  of  the  serpent,  and  can  bur 
row  like  the  hill-fox.  He  will  no  longer  take  the 
dove  to  his  heart,  dreading  an  enemy.  He  will 
go  home  to  his  people — he  will  gather  the  young 
men  of  the  nation,  and  do  battle  for  Henamarsa. 
Onea  is  a  brave  warrior  —  will  he  not  fight  for 
Anyta  ?" 

"  Onea  would  die  for  Anyta,  but  he  would  not 


ONEA   AND   ANYTA.  231 

that  Anyta  should  perish  too.  Onea  would  not 
destroy  the  people  of  his  wife." 

"  Would  they  not  destroy  Onea  ?  They  would 
hang  his  scalp  in  the  smoke  of  their  wigwams  — 
they  would  shout  and  dance  about  the  stake  when 
his  death-song  is  singing.  If  Onea  will  not  depart 
with  Hillaby,  he  will  go  alone.  He  will  bring 
the  young  warriors  ;  and  the  dogs  who  would  keep 
Henamarsa  from  his  wigwam  —  they  shall  perish 
by  his  knife,  and  the  wild  boar  shall  grow  fat  upon 
their  carcasses." 

Thus  spoke  the  elder  of  the  two  warriors,  and 
vain  were  the  entreaties  and  arguments  employed 
by  Onea  to  dissuade  him  from  his  purpose.  The 
Indian  habit  was  too  strong  for  love,  and  his  sense 
of  national,  not  less  than  individual  pride,  together 
with  the  supineness  of  his  present  life,  contrasted 
with  that  restless  activity  to  which  he  had  been 
brought  up  and  habituated,  rendered  all  persua 
sion  fruitless,  and  destroyed  the  force  of  all  argu 
ments.  Deep,  seemingly,  was  the  anguish  of 
Henamarsa,  when  she  learned  the  departure  of 
her  lover.  A  settled  fear,  however,  took  posses 
sion  of  the  bosom  of  the  gentle  Anyta,  and  she 
sobbed  upon  the  breast  of  the  brave  Onea.  She 
felt  that  their  happiness  was  at  an  end — that  the 
hope  of  her  people  was  insecure  —  that  the  home 


232  ONEA   AND    ANYTA. 

of  her  fathers  was  about  to  suffer  violation.  She 
saw  at  once  all  the  danger,  and  did  not  hesitate 
to  whisper  it  in  the  ear  of  Onea.  All  her  hope 
rested  in  the  belief,  that  Hillaby  would  never  suc 
ceed  in  tracing  his  way  back  through  the  intrica 
cies  of  the  swamp  to  his  own  people ;  or  if  he  did, 
that  he  would  not  succeed  in  guiding  them  to  the 
precise  point  in  its  recesses,  in  which  her  tribe  had 
found  its  abode.  But  Onea  knew  better  the  capa 
cities  of  a  warrior  among  his  people.  He  seized 
his  bow  and  equipments,  and  would  have  taken 
the  path  after  Hillaby,  determined  to  quiet  the 
fears  of  his  beloved,  even  by  the  death  of  his  late 
friend  and  companion  ;  but  the  maiden  restrained 
him.  She  uttered  a  prayer  to  the  great  spirit,  for 
the  safety  of  herself  and  people,  and  gave  herself 
up  to  the  wonted  happiness  of  that  society  for 
which  she  was  willing  to  sacrifice  every  thing. 


V. 


A  new  trial  awaited  Onea.  One  day  Anyta 
came  not.  The  canoe  was  paddled  by  Hena- 
marsa  alone.  She  sought  him  in  his  wigwam. 
She  sought  to  take  the  place  of  his  beloved  in  his 
affections,  and  would  have  loaded  him  with  caresses. 


ONEA   AND    ANYTA.  233 

"  Where  is  Anyta  ?"  asked  the  young  warrior. 

"She  is  no  longer  the  bride  of  Onea,"  was  the 
reply.  "  She  has  gone  into  the  wigwam  of  a  war 
rior  of  her  tribe  —  Henamarsa  will  love  Onea,  in 
the  place  of  Anyta." 

"  Onea  will  love  none  but  Anyta,"  was  the 
reply. 

"  But  she  is  now  the  wife  of  Echotee,  the  young 
chief.  She  can  no  longer  be  yours.  You  will 
never  see  her  more." 

"  I  will  tear  her  from  the  cabin  of  the  dog  —  I 
will  drive  my  hatchet  into  his  skull,"  —  said  the 
infuriated  warrior.  He  rejected  all  the  blandish 
ments  of  Henamarsa,  and  taunted  her  with  her  in 
fidelity  to  Hillaby.  She  departed  in  anger  from 
his  presence,  and  he  lay  troubled  with  his  medita 
tions  as  to  the  course  he  should  pursue  with  regard 
to  Anyta.  His  determination  was  adopted,  and 
at  midnight,  in  a  birchen  canoe  prepared  through 
the  day,  he  took  his  way  over  the  broad  lake  to 
the  island.  It  lay,  but  not  in  quiet,  stretched  out 
beautifully  under  the  twinkling  stars  that  shone 
down  sweetly  upon  it.  These,  however,  were  not 
its  only  lights.  Countless  blazes  illuminated  the 
shores  in  every  direction —rand  the  sound  of  lively 
music  came  upon  his  ear,  with  an  influence  that 
chafed  still  more  fiercely  the  raging  spirit  in  his 
20* 


234  ONE  A    AND    ANYTA. 

heart.  There  were  shouts  and  songs  of  merri 
ment —  and  the  whirling  tread  of  the  impetuous 
dancers  bespoke  a  feast  and  a  frolic,  such  as  are 
due,  among  the  Indians,  to  occasions  only  of  the 
highest  festivity. 

Drawing  his  bark  quietly  upon  the  shore,  with 
out  interruption,  he  went  among  the  revel 
lers.  No  one  seemed  to  observe  —  no  one  ques 
tioned  him.  Dressed  in  habiliments  the  most  fan 
tastic  and  irregular,  his  warlike  semblance  did  not 
strike  the  minds  of  the  spectators  as  at  all  incon 
sistent  with  the  sports  they  were  pursuing,  and  he 
passed  without  impediment  or  check  to  the  great 
hall,  from  whence  the  sounds  of  most  extravagant 
merriment  proceeded.  He  entered  with  the  throng, 
in  time  to  witness  a  solemn  ceremonial.  There 
came,  at  one  side,  a  gallant  chief,  youthful,  hand 
some,  and  gracefully  erect.  He  came  at  the  head 
of  a  chosen  band  of  youth  of  his  own  age,  attired 
in  rich  furs  taken  from  native  animals.  Each  of 
them  bore  a  white  wand,  the  symbol  of  marriage. 

On  the  other  side  came  a  like  party  of 
maidens,  dressed  in  robes  of  the  whitest  cotton, 
and  bearing  wands  like  the  men.  What  bright 
creature  is  it  that  leads  this  beautiful  array  ?  Why 
does  the  young  Muscoghee  start — wherefore  the 


ONE  A    AND    ANYTA.  .  235 

v 

red  spot  on  the  brow  of  Onea  ?  The  maiden  who 
leads  the  procession,  is  his  own,  the  gentle  Anyta. 
Grief  was  in  her  face  ;  her  eyes  were  dewy  and 
sad,  and  her  limbs  so  trembled  that  those  around 
gathered  to  her  support.  The  first  impulse  of 
Onea  was  to  rush  forward  and  challenge  the  array 
—  to  seize  upon  the  maiden  in  the  presence  of  the 
assembly  ;  and,  by  the  strength  of  his  arm,  and 
the  sharp  stroke  of  his  hatchet,  to  assert  his  claims 
to  the  bride  in  the  teeth  of  every  competitor.  But 
the  warrior  was  not  less  wise  than  daring.  He 
saw  that  the  maiden  was  sick  at  heart,  and  a  fond 
hope  sprung  into  his  own.  He  determined  to  wit 
ness  the  progress  of  the  ceremony,  trusting  some 
thing  to  events.  They  dragged  her  forward  to 
the  rite,  passive  rather  than  unresisting.  The 
white  wands  of  the  two  processions,  males  and  fe 
males,  were  linked  above  the  heads  of  Echotee  and 
Anyta — the  bridal  dance  was  performed  around 
them  in  circles,  and,  agreeable  to  the  ritual  of  the 
tribe  to  which  they  belonged,  the  marriage  was 
declared  complete.  And  now  came  on  the  ban 
queting.  The  repast,  fruitful  of  animation,  pro 
ceeded,  and  the  warriors  gathered  around  the 
board,  disposed  alternately  among  the  maidens 
Echotee  and  Anyta  presiding.  Onea  stood  apart. 
"  Who  is  he  who  despises  our  festival  —  why 


236  ONEA   AND   ANYTA. 

does  the  young  man  stand  away  from  the  board  ? 
The  brave  man  may  fight  and  rejoice — he  wears 
not  always  the  war  paint — he  cries  not  for  ever 
the  war-whoop  —  he  will  come  where  the  singing 
birds  gather,  and  join  in  the  merriment  of  the 
feast." 

Thus  cried  a  strong  voice  from  the  company, 
and  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  Onea.  The  youth 
did  not  shrink  from  reply  — 

"  The  warrior  says  what  is  true.  It  is  not  for 
the  brave  man  to  scorn  the  festival  —  he  rejoices 
at  the  feast.  But  the  stranger  comes  of  a  far  tribe, 
and  she  who  carries  the  wand  must  bid  him  wel 
come,  or  he  sits  not  at  the  board  with  the  war 
riors." 

Anyta  slowly  rose  to  perform  the  duty  imposed 
upon  her.  She  had  already  recognised  the  form 
of  her  lover,  and  her  step  was  tremulous  and  her 
advances  slow.  She  waved  the  wand  which  she 
held  in  her  hands,  and  he  approached,  unhesita 
tingly,  to  her  side.  The  Indians  manifested  little 
curiosity — such  a  feature  of  character  being  incon 
sistent,  in  their  notion,  with  the  manliness  indispen 
sable  to  the  warrior.  Still  there  was  something 
marked  in  the  habit  worn  by  Onea/which'taught 
them  to  believe  him  a  stranger.  At  such  a  time, 
however,  the  young  men,  intriguing  with  their  dus- 


ONEA   AND   ANYTA.  237 

ky  loves,  rendered  disguises  and  deceptions  so  fre 
quent,  less  notice  ensued  than  might  otherwise  have 
been  the  case,  and  the  repast  proceeded  without  far 
ther  interruption.  Then  followed  the  bridal  proces 
sion  to  the  future  dwelling  of  the  couple.  The 
whole  assembly  sallied  forth,  to  the  sound  of  dis 
cordant  music,  each  with  a  flaming  torch  within 
his  hand.  They  frolicked  with  wild  halloos  in  the 
train  of  the  bridal  pair,  waving  their  flaming 
torches  in  every  direction.  A  small  stream,  con 
secrated  by  a  thousand  such  occurrences,  rippled 
along  their  pathway,  upon  approaching  which, 
they  hurled  the  lights  into  its  hissing  waters,  leav 
ing  the  entire  procession  in  darkness.  This  was 
one  part  of  the  wonted  and  well  known  frolic. 
The  transition  from  unaccustomed  light  to  solemn 
darkness,  producing  the  profoundest  confusion, 
the  merriment  grew  immense.  One  party  stum 
bled  over  the  other,  and  all  were  playing  at  con 
traries  and  cross  purposes.  Shouts  of  laughter  in 
every  direction,  broke  the  gloom  which  occasioned 
it,  and  proved  the  perfect  success  of  the  jest. 

But,  on  a  sudden,  a  cry  arose  that  the  bride  was 
missing.  This,  perhaps,  contributed  more  than 
any  thing  beside  to  the  good  humor  of  all  but  the 
one  immediately  concerned,  and  the  complaint  and 
clamor  of  the  poor  bridegroom  met  with  no  sym- 


238          ONEA  AND  ANYTA. 

pathy.  His  appeals  were  unheeded — his  asseve 
rations  received  with  laughter  and  shouts  of  the 
most  deafening  description.  All  mirth,  however, 
must  have  its  end  ;  and  the  joke  'grew  serious. 
The  bride  was  really  missing,  and  every  thing 
was  in  earnest  and  unmitigated  confusion.  Vain 
ly  did  the  warriors  search  —  vainly  did-  the 
maidens  call  upon  the  name  of  Anyta.  She 
was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  their  voices,  hur 
rying  down  the  quiet  lake  with  Onea,  to  the  green 
island  of  their  early  loves  and  unqualified  affec 
tions. 

There  was  one  who  readily  guessed  the  mystery 
of  Anyta's  abduction.  The  heart  of  Henamarsa 
had  long  yearned  for  that  of  Onea.  The  rejec 
tion  of  her  suit  by  the  scrupulous  warrior  had 
changed  its  temper  into  bitterness  ;  and  a  more 
vindictive  feeling  took  possession  of  her  breast. 
She  determined  to  be  revenged. 

The  warrior  lay  at  sunset  in  the  quiet  bower, 
and  he  slept  with  sweet  visions  in  his  eyes.  But 
why  shrieks  the  young  maiden,  and  wherefore  is  the 
strong  hand  upon  him  ?  Who  are  they  that  bind 
with  thongs  the  free  limbs  of  the  warrior  .?  Vainly 
does  he  struggle  for  his  release.  Many  are  the 
foes  around  him,  and  deadly  the  vengeance  which 
they  threaten.  He  looks  about  for  Anyta — she 


ONEA    AND   ANYTA.  239 

too  is  bound  with  thongs.  Above  him  stood  the 
form  of  Henamarsa,  and  he  well  knew  who  had  be 
trayed  him,  yet  he  uttered  no  reproach.  She  looked 
upon  him  with  an  eye  of  mingled  love  and  triumph, 
but  he  gave  her  no  look  in  return.  He  knew  her  not. 
They  took  him  back  to  the  island,  and  added 
to  his  bonds.  They  taunted  him  with  words  of 
scorn,  and  inflicted  ignominious  blows  upon  his 
limbs.  They  brought  him  food  and  bade  him  eat 
for  the  sacrifice  ;  for  that,  at  the  close  of  the  moon, 
just  begun,  he  should  be  subjected,  with  the  gentle 
Anyta,  to  the  torture  of  fire  and  the  stake.  "  A 
Creek  warrior  will  teach  you  how  to  die,"  said 
Onea.  "You  are  yet  children;  you  know  no 
thing,"  —  and  he  shook  his  chains  in  their  faces, 
and  spat  on  them  with  contempt. 


VI. 


That  night  a  voice  came  to  him  in  his  dungeon. 
Though  he  saw  not  the  person,  yet  he  knew  that 
Henamarsa  was  beside  him. 

"  Live,"  said  the  false  one  —  "  live,  Onea,  and 
I  will  unloose  the  cords  about  thy  limbs.  I  will 
make  thee  free  of  thy  keepers  —  I  will  carry  thee 
to  a  quiet  forest,  where  my  people  shall  find  thee 


240  ONE A  AND  ANYTA. 

never."  The  warrior  spake  not,  but  turned  his 
face  from  the  tempter  to  the  wall  of  his  prison. 
Vainly  did  she  entreat  him,  nor  forego  her  prayers, 
until  the  first  glimmerings  of  the  day  light  urged 
her  departure.  Rising,  then,  with  redoubled  fury 
from  his  side,  where  she  had  thrown  herself,  she 
drew  a  knife  before  his  eyes.  The  blade  gleamed 
in  his  sight,  but  he  shrunk  not. 

"  What,"  said  she,  "  if  I  strike  thee  to  the 
heart,  thou  that  art  sterner  than  the  she-wolf,  and 
colder  than  the  stone  house  of  the  adder  f  What 
if  I  strike  thee  for  thy  scorn,  and  slay  thee  like  a 
fox  even  in  his  hole  ?" 

"  Is  there  a  mountain  between  us,  woman,  and 
canst  thou  not  strike?"  said  the  warrior.  "  Why 
speakest  thou  to  me  ?  Do  thy  will,  and  hiss  no 
more  like  a  snake  in  my  ears.  Thou  hast  lost 
thy  sting  —  I  should  not  feel  the  blow  from  thy 
knife." 

"  Thou  art  a  brave  warrior,"  said  the  intruder, 
"  and  I  love  thee  too  well  to  slay  thee.  I  will  seek 
thee  again  in  thy  captivity,  and  look  for  thee  to 
listen." 

The  last  night  of  the  moon  had  arrived,  and 
the  noon  of  the  ensuing  day  was  fixed  for  the  exe 
cution  of  Onea  and  Anyta.  Henamarsa  came 
again  to  the  prison  of  the  chief,  and  love  had  full 


ONEA   AND    ANYTA.  241 

possession  of  her  soul.  She  strove  to  win  him  to  his 
freedom  upon  her  own  conditions.  She  then  prof 
fered  him  the  same  boon  upon  his  own  terms ;  but  he 
disdained  and  denied  her.  Deep  was  her  affliction, 
and  she  now  deplored  her  agency  in  the  captivity 
of  the  chief.  She  had  thought  him  less  inflexible 
in  his  faith  ;  and,  judging  of  his,  by  the  yielding 
susceptibilities  of  her  own  heart,  had  falsely  be 
lieved  that  the  service  she  offered  would  have 
sanctioned  his  adoption  of  any  conditions  which 
she  might  propose.  She  now  beheld  him  ready 
for  death,  but  not  for  dishonor.  She  saw  him 
prepared  for  the  last  trial,  and  she  sunk  down  in 
despair. 

The  hour  was  at  hand,  and  the  two  were  bound 
to  the  stake.  The  torches  were  blazing  around 
them  —  the  crowd  assembled  —  the  warrior  sing 
ing  his  song  of  death,  and  of  many  triumphs.  But 
they  were  not  so  to  perish.  Relief  and  rescue 
were  at  hand ;  and  looking  forth  upon  the  lake, 
which  his  eyes  took  in  at  a  glance,  Onea  beheld  a 
thousand  birchen  canoes  upon  its  surface,  and  fly 
ing  to  the  scene  of  execution.  He  knew  the  war 
riors  who  approached.  He  discerned  the  war 
paint  of  his  nation  ;  he  counted  the  brave  men,  as 
they  urged  forward  their  vessels,  and  called  them 
by  their  names.  The  warriors  who  surrounded  him 

VOL.  i.  21 


242  ONEA    AND    ANYTA. 

rushed,  in  a. panic,. for  their  arms — but  how  could 
they  contend  with  the  choice  men  of  the  Creeks  — 
the  masters  of  a  hundred  nations  ?  The  conflict 
was  brief,  though  hotly  contended.  The  people  of 
Onea  were  triumphant,  and  the  chief  and  the  beau 
tiful  An}?ta  rescued  from  their  perilous  situation. 
The  people  whom  they  had  conquered  were  bound 
with  thongs.,  and  the  council  deliberated  upon  their 
destiny.  Shall  they  go  free?  shall  they  die  ? 
were  the  questions —  somewhat  novel,  it  is  true, 
in  the  history  of  the  Indians,  whose  course  of 
triumph  was  usually  marked  with  indiscriminate 
massacre.  The  voice  of  Onea  determined  the 
question,  and  their  lives  were  spared. 

"Will  you  be  of  us  and  of  our  nation?"  asked 
the  conquerors  of  the  conquered. 

"  We  are  the  children  of  the  sun,"  was  the  proud 
reply  —  "  and  can  mingle  with  no  blood  but  our 
own." 

"Our  young  men  will  not  yield  the  fair  lake, 
and  the  beautiful  island,  and  the  choice  fruits." 

"  They  are  worthy  of  women  and  children  only, 
and  to  these  we  leave  them.  We  will  seek  else 
where  for  the  habitations  of  our  people  —  we  will 
go  into  other  lands.  It  is  nothing  new  to  our  for 
tunes  that  we  should  do  so  now.  The  spoiler  has 
twice  been  among  us,  and  the  places  that  knew  us 


ONEA    AND    ANYTA.  243 

shall  know  us  no  more.  Are  we  frt  e  to  depart  ? 
Let  not  your  young1  men  follow  to  spy  out  our  new 
habitations.  Let  them  take  what  is  ours  now,  but 
let  them  leave  us  in  quiet  hereafter." 

"You  are  free  to  go,"  was  the  response,  "and 
our  young  men  shall  not  follow  you." 

The  .old  chiefs  led  the  way,  and  the  young  fol 
lowed,  singing  a  song  of  exile,  to  which  they 
claimed  to  be  familiar,  and  calling  themselves  the 
Seminole  —  a  name,  which,  in  their  language,  is 
supposed  to  signify,  the  outcast.  All  departed, 
save  Anyta,  and  she  dwelt  for  long  years  after  in 
the  cabin  of  Onea. 


END     OF     VOLUME     I. 


CARL    WERNER, 


AN    IMAGINATIVE     STORY; 


WITH     OTHER 

...  -; 

TALES    OF    IMAGINATION 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP 


"THE  YEMASSEE,"    "GUY   RIVERS," 
"MELLICHAMPE,"  &c. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES, 

VOL.  II. 


NEW  YORK: 
GEORGE  ADLARD,   46  BROADWAY. 

1838. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1838,  by 

W.  GILMORE  SIMMS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


CRAIGHEAD  &  ALLEN,  PRINTERS, 
112  Fulton  Street. 


CONTENTS   OF   VOLUME   II. 

PAGE 

CONRADE  WEICKHOFP; 3 

LOGOOCHIE, :  .  .  .  .    83 

JOCASSEE, 131 

THE  CHEROKEE  EMBASSAGE 175 


®^ 


CONRADE  WEICKHOFF. 


VOL,  II. 


CONRADE  WEICKHOFF. 


I. 


IT  was  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  Rodolph 
Steinmyer  to  become  enamored  of  the  fair  Bertha, 
the  only  daughter  of  the  Baron  Staremberg.  It 
was  not  so  easy  a  matter  to  obtain  the  approval  of 
the  proud  old  baron.  Rodolph  was  noble,  of  ex 
cellent  family  ;  but  what  is  nobility  without  money  ? 
This  was  the  question  with  the  baron — the  lead 
ing  question  in  every  reference  which  he  made  to 
the  pretensions  of  Rodolph  to  his  daughter's  hand. 
Would  nobility,  merely,  keep  a  castle,  find  retain 
ers,  man  the  walls  against  the  enemy,  or  even  — 
not  to  descend  too  hurriedly — furnish  the  table 
and  provide  the  daily  cheer  ?  Manifestly,  it  could 
not ;  and  so  the  noble  lineage  of  Rodolph  Stein 
myer  did  not  go  far  toward  commending  him  in 
the  sight  of  the  sturdy  father  of  his  sweetheart.  It 


4  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

rather  made  against  him  ;  as  it  called  for  that  con 
sideration  in  society,  and  rendered  necessary  those 
shows  of  place  and  pretension,  which  could  never 
be  expected  of  one  not  of  high  birth  ;  and  which, 
in  the  event  of  Rodolph  becoming  his  son-in-law, 
would  only  have  the  effect  of  adding  an  encum 
brance  of  great  amount  to  his  own  already  encum 
bered   establishment.     The    baron   was    quite  as 
poor  as  he  was  proud ;  and  this  probably  was,  in 
all  respects,  a  very  proper  consideration.     It  was 
necessary  that  Bertha  should  re-establish  the  old 
house.     The  castle  wanted  repairs  ;  and  Bertha's 
eyes  were  looked  to,  whenever  it  became  a  ques 
tion  how  money  should  be  raised  for  the  purpose. 
The  castle  wanted  furniture  ;  and  Bertha's  lips,  it 
was  thought,  might  do  much  toward  fitting  it  up. 
Bertha's  beauties,  in  short,  were  the  only  treasures 
to  which  the  old  baron  could  possibly  refer,  when 
ever  he  contemplated  any  of  the  many  difficult, 
but  absolutely  necessary,  expenditures  of  his  house 
hold.     To  throw  them  away  upon  a  beggar  —  to 
give  Bertha  to  Rodolph,  was,  therefore,  a  matter 
entirely  out  of  the  question.     It  is  true,  the  baron 
knew  well  enough  how  fondly  the  two  loved  each 
other ;  but  what  of  that  ?     Is  the  love  of  a  young 
girl  to  be  considered,  even  for  a  moment,  in  oppo- 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 


sition  to  the  cupidity  or  caprice  of  her  relations  ? 
It  would  be  exceedingly  foolish  to  suppose  so. 


II. 


Bertha  thought  otherwise.  She  loved  Rodolph 
very  much ;  quite  as  much,  indeed,  as  he  loved 
her.  They  seemed  formed  entirely  for  each  other ; 
and  never  were  two  young,  thoughtless  hearts,  so 
mutually  devoted.  Day  after  day  did  their  eyes 
meet,  and  their  thoughts  mingle  ;  and  day  after 
day  increased  their  mutual  dependence  with  their 
passion.  It  is  true,  Rodolph  was  poor,  but  Bertha 
never  thought  of  that.  His  garments  were  none 
of  the  best,  but  they  were  worn  by  Rodolph.  His 
castle  was  old,  unfurnished,  untenanted,  and  he 
had  no  cattle.  But  then,  she  never  felt  any  wants 
when  with  Rodolph,  and  she  never  thought  of  any 
want  but  himself,  when  he  was  absent.  It  was 
well  for  her,  perhaps,  that  she  had  a  papa  who  was 
more  thoughtful.  The  baron's  consideration  am 
ply  atoned  for  the  daughter's  thoughtlessness.  If 
she  thought  only  of  Rodolph  —  he  thought  no 
thing  of  Rodolph.  If  she  thought  nothing  of  the 
possessions  of  her  lover — -the  old  baron  consi- 
1* 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 


dered  nothing  else.     Between  the  two,  therefore, 
the  subject,  on  all  sides,  was  amply  investigated. 


in. 


It  was  not  the  good  fortune  of  Bertha  to  know 
any  thing  of  her  father's  concern  in  this  matter, 
until  long  after  he  had  gravely  considered  it.  But 
one  day  there  came  a  new  wooer  to  the  castle  of 
Staremberg.  This  was  a  bachelor  baron,  whom 
Bertha  had  never  seen  before,  and  who  dwelt  in 
a  noble  palace  at  some  little  distance.  She,  poor 
girl,  never  dreamed  of  the  object  of  his  visit;  but 
Rodolph  was  a  little  more  suspicious.  He  no 
sooner  heard  of  it  than  he  set  off,  post  haste,  for  Sta 
remberg  castle.  He  came  in  a  desperate  hurry, 
determined  to  put  his  affaire  dw  cceur  to  a  final 
issue.  His  manner  indicated  no  little  excitement. 
He  thrust  aside,  one  after  another,  the  sluggish 
retainers,  in  a  most  unaccustomed  and  most  unbe 
coming  manner  ;  and  even  the  bachelor  baron, 
himself,  Baron  Brickelewacksikow,  —  whose  name 
the  reader  will  please  remember  in  future,  without 
requiring  us  to  write  it  —  happening  to  stand  bolt 
upright  in  the  very  passage  through  which  the 
youth  was  pushing  his  headlong  way,  was  tumbled 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 


incontinently  against  the  wall,  much  to  the  detri 
ment  of  his  knees  and  shoulders,  and  the  discom 
fiture  of  his  spirit.  Rodolph  was  evidently  in  a 
hurry. 


IV. 


In  the  presence  of  the  Baron  and  Baroness  Sta- 
remberg,  Bertha  very  judiciously  being  absent, 
the  youthful  Rodolph  found  himself  much  sooner 
than  he  expected.  He  certainly  felt,  as  he  looked 
upon  their  distinct  faces,  that  he  need  not  have 
been  in  such  an  exceeding  hurry.  The  old  baron 
looked  quite  as  grim  as  the  Saracen  that  his  grand 
father  slew  in  the  fifth  crusade,  the  reeking  head 
of  whom  was  painted  in  gigantic  lines  upon  the 
trembling  tapestry  before  them ;  the  baroness,  if 
possible,  more  outrageously  grim,  and  not  a  whit 
less  unhandsome  than  her  liege  lord,  sat  like  a 
stone  fortress  of  exceeding  strength  and  dimen 
sions,  upright  in  his  way.  She  looked  impene 
trable  as  a  dozen  dungeons.  Rodolph  was  no 
longer  in  a  hurry.  He  really  began  to  wonder 
what  he  had  come  for  ;  he  certainly  had  not  the 
gift  of  languages  at  that  moment,  and  would  —  if 
he  had  known  any  thing  about  that  burning  and 


8  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

shining  light,  at  this  early  period  —  have  given 
the  world  for  only  half  an  hour's  preliminary  con 
versation  with  the  Reverend  Edward  Irving. 


V. 


The  conference  was  sooner  ended  than  began. 
It  was  a  desperate  necessity  ;  and,  with  a  violent 
effort,  Rodolph  contrived  to  find  his  parts  of  speech, 
though  he  still  stammered  and  stuttered  most  an- 
noyingly.  But  when  he  had  said  his  say,  and  the 
obtuse  senses  of  his  two  arbiters  had  at  length  ap 
preciated  his  object,  there  was  a  joint  burst  of  as 
tonishment,  almost  amounting  to  horror,  from 
their  several  lips,  at  the  atrocious  insolence  of  his 
demand  : 

"  What !  do  you,  Rodolph  Steinmyer,  dare  to 
ask  of  me  in  marriage  the  hand  of  lady  Bertha  of 
Starernberg  ?"  exclaimed  the  baron. 

"  My  daughter !"  shrieked  the  baroness,  in  a 
fit  of  holy  horror. 

"  Presumption  !"  exclaimed  the  baron. 

"Blasphemy!"  groaned  the  baroness.  And 
they  looked  to  one  another,  and  they  looked  to 
the  confounded  youth,  and  they  looked  to  the 
heavens  and  to  the  earth,  and  then  they  turned 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  9 

simultaneously  again  upon  the  pleader,  and  de 
manded  to  know  if  they  had  heard  him  rightly. 
They  were  willing  to  believe  that  they  might  have 
misunderstood  him. 


VI. 


But  the  youth  had  plucked  up  courage  during 
the  brief  and  sudden  progress  of  their  indignation. 
With  an  air  of  greater  resolution  than  before,  he 
repeated  his  demand;  and  was  just  about  to  give 
sundry  good  reasons  why  he  should  be  considered 
the  properest  person  in  the  world  to  take  charge 
of  a  maiden  so  young  and  interesting  as  Bertha  of 
Staremberg,  when  the  baron,  with  more  coolness 
and  composure  —  perhaps,  too,  with  something 
more  of  condescension  in  his  manner — proceeded 
to  interrupt  him  : 

"  Say  no  more,  Rodolph ;  say  no  more.  You 
are  a  good  youth,  and  I  knew  your  father.  He 
was  my  most  intimate  friend,  and  I  loved  him  very 
much  —  very  much,  Rodolph.  I  love  you  too, 
Rodolph ;  you  are  a  good  youth,  but  you  cannot 
have  Bertha." 

"No  ;  you  cannot  have  my  daughter,"  cried  the 
old  lady. 


10  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

"  No ;  you  cannot  have  our  daughter,"  said  the 
baron. 

"  I  am  shocked,"  said  the  baroness,  "  that  you 
ever  thought  that  you  could  have  my  daughter." 

"  It  is,  indeed,  very  surprising,  Rodolph,  that 
you  should  have  fallen  into  such  an  error,"  said 
the  baron  ;  "but  now  that  I  have  explained  it,  I 
trust  that  you  will  give  up  such  a  foolish,  such  an 
extravagant  idea." 

"  Such  an  audacious  —  such  an  impious  idea  — 
my  daughter!"  exclaimed  Lady  Staremberg,  with 
an  echo  to  her  husband  like  that  of  Killarney. 

"  Never !"  exclaimed  the  youth,  with  a  voice  of 
thunder.  "Never!  Give  up  Bertha?  Better 
tell  me  to  give  up  life." 

"  Ay,  and  that  might  be  advisable,  when  there's 
no  money.  Life,  without  money,  is  but  a  bag 
gage  wagon,  on  a  long  march,  without  stores  or 
provisions,"  very  coolly  responded  the  baron ; 
"  Bertha  you  can  never  have,  unless  your  castle  is 
manned,  and  repaired,  and  furnished,  and  you  can 
show  me  wealth  like  that  of  baron  —  the  baron 
with  the  big  name — to  whom,  if  he  is  pleased  to 
accept  her,  I  propose  to  give  her  hand.  Produce 
proofs  of  wealth  like  his,  Rodolph,  and,  as  I  loved 
your  father  and  love  you,  I  shall  give  you  a  deci 
ded  preference." 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  11 

The  youth,  muttering  curses,  hurried  away  in 
despair,  bent  upon  carrying  up  his  appeal  to  a 
gentler,  if  not  a  higher  court. 


VII. 


Rodolph  flew  instantly  to  Bertha,  with  a  degree 
of  impatience  that  might  have  seemed  less  than 
respectful,  but  that  it  was  duly  mixed  up  with  a 
sufficient  share  of  tenderness  ;  he  unfolded  his 
cause  of  difficulty,  related  his  love  at  length,  re 
counted  the  scene  with  her  parents,  and  resolutely 
declared  that  he  neither  would  nor  could  live  with 
out  her.  The  poor  girl  was  sufficiently  over 
whelmed  with  the  novel  character  of  her  situation. 
She  had  never  deliberated  much  upon  the  condi 
tion  of  her  heart,  which,  like  a  gipsey's  child,  had 
been  allowed  all  along  to  do  just  what  it  pleased; 
and  the  sudden  and  unaccustomed  contraction  of 
all  its  liberties,  just  now  threatened  it,  had  an  effect 
not  less  paralyzing  on  her  than  it  was  maddening 
to  him.  She  knew  not  how  to  consider  her  afflic 
tion,  or  in  which  way  to  turn  first.  It  was  now, 
for  the  first  time,  that  Rodolph  had  declared  him 
self;  the  words  were  strangely  new  to  her  ears, 
but  somehow  they  came  naturally  enough,  and  as 


12  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

a  thing  of  course,  to  her  heart.     That  heart  fully 
responded  to  them ;  and,  certainly,  she  loved  the 
youth  quite  as  much  as  it  was  possible  for  her,  and 
proper  for  a  young  maiden  of  seventeen,  to  love. 
The  strength  of  her  attachment  to  the  youth  be 
came  fully  evident  to  herself,  when  she  understood 
the  intention  of  her  parents  to  give  her  to  the  ba 
ron  with  a  long  name.     She  confessed  how  much 
she  loved  him  ;  shed  a  world  of  tears ;  showed  by 
look,  word,  and  action,  that  she  was  miserable  at 
the  thought  of  marrying  another ;  and  when  the 
youth,  flattered  with  these  manifestations,  was  bold 
enough  to  propose  that  she  should  avail  herself  of 
the  present  opportunity  to  change  the  air  of  her 
father's  castle  for  that  of  his  own,  which  he  assured 
her  was  far  more  likely  to  be  beneficial  to  her 
health,  to  his  great  surprise,  she  flatly  refused  him. 
Bertha  was  a  good  child  ;  and  the  holy  law  which 
teaches  us  to  love  father  and  mother,  in  order  that 
our  days  may  be  long  in  the  land,  was  not  less  a 
feeling  and  an  instinct  in  her  heart,  than  a  princi 
ple  in  her  mind.     Her  soul  was  too  pure,  too  se 
cure  in  its  natural  whiteness,  to  permit  even  love 
to  obtain  a  triumph  over  its  sense  of  duty. 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 


13 


vni. 

Rodolph  was  in  despair.  Never  was  lover 
more  eloquent  and  impassioned. 

"  And  you  will  not,  Bertha  ?" 

"  I  dare  not,  Rodolph." 

"  What !  you  will  consent  to  this  sacrifice.  You 
,will  let  them  bind  you  to  that  old  dotard,  whom 
you  hate.  You  will  let  them  tear  you  from  the 
arms  of  the  man  you  profess  to  love  — " 

"  Whom  I  do  love,  Rodolph,"  was  the  gentle 
chiding. 

."  Oh  !  Bertha,  how  can  you  consent  to  this  ? 
How  can  you  submit  to  be  made  a  thing  of  barter  ; 
of  a  mercenary  love  of  wealth  ?  Think,  my  be 
loved,  of  the  long  years  before  us  both — years  of 
bliss  or  years  of  blight,  simply  as  you  shall  decree 
at  this  moment.  Can  you  hesitate  if  you  love  ? 
Can  you  hesitate  if  you  think  .?  It  cannot  be  very 
long  before  father  and  mother  will  both  depart ; 
and  then,- — dear  Bertha,  —  where  then  will  be 
your  consolation  ?  Nowhere,  but  in  the  bosom  of 
a  kindred  love.  You  cannot  hesitate.  You  owe 
it  to  me,  to  yourself,  to  all ;  to  your  promises  and 
pledges  of  the  past ;  to  your  hopes  of  the  future ; 

VOL.    II.  2 


14  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

to  love,  to  truth ;  for  how  can  you  promise,  love 
to  him,  having  a  love  for  me  ?  how  can  he  believe 
it,  even  should  you  falsely  declare  it?  It  is  a 
higher  duty  which  you  owe  to  heaven — infinitely 
beyond  that  due  to  your  parents— to  speak  the 
truth  always,  and  more  particularly  where  the  af 
fections,  our  most  valuable  wealth,  are  so  deeply 
interested.  Say  to  me,  then,  that  you  will  be 
mine.  Fly  with  me  now.  In  another  hour  the 
opportunity  may  be  lost,  and  never  return  to  us 
again.  In  another  hour,  dearest  Bertha,  tyranny, 
which  is  the  foe  to  love,  may  sacrifice  us  both  on 
the  altar  of  worldly  interest.  We  shall  be  torn 
apart,  and  separated  for  ever." 

Rodolph  was  eloquent,  but  the  maiden  was 
most  firm.  To  the  young  mind,  taught  properly, 
there  is  no  consideration  so  revolting  as  the  diso 
bedience  of  a  child ;  and  it  must  have  been  the 
worst  of  all  parental  oppression,  that  of  actual  vio 
lence,  which  could  have  made  Bertha  of  Starem- 
berg  take  any  step  in  opposition  to  the  will  of  her 
father.  She  sighed  and  sorrowed  unaffectedly  ; 
repeated  her  vows  of  love  to  Rodolph,  and  pro 
mised  him  eternal  faith  ;  but  the  youth  was  not  to 
be  satisfied  after  this  fashion.  He  renewed  his  so 
licitations  ;  and  it  was  only  when  he  had  exhaust 
ed  all  his  arguments,  entreaties,  and  breath  toge- 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  15 

ther,  that  he  tore  himself  away  from  her  restrain 
ing  arms,  and  rushing  forth  from  the  castle  of 
Staremberg  in  a  fit  of  despair,  hastened  furiously 
to  a  neighboring  wood,  in  a  paroxysm  which 
seemed  td  promise  the  most  desperate  results. 


IX. 


Rodolph  sought  the  wood  of  the  Black  Forest 
in  no  enviable  temper.  He  buried  himself  in  its 
deepest  recesses  ;  for  his  thoughts  were  dark  like 
its  own  glooms,  and  horrible,  like  the  numerous 
spectral  images  by  which  tradition  had  tenanted 
them.  He  was  of  a  quick  and  irritable  disposi 
tion  ;  and  he  had  not  been  sufficiently  tempered 
by  the  vicissitudes  of  life  to  bear  meekly  and  qui 
etly  with  any  contradiction.  The  opposition  of 
Bertha's  parents  was  bad  enough  ;  but  he  had 
never  anticipated  any  from  herself.  That  she 
should  refuse  at  first  was  to  be  expected  ;  but  that 
she  should  continue  to  deny  to  the  last,  was  no 
less  unreasonable  than  unmaidenlike ;  and  with 
half  a  resolution  to  do  what  he  was  about  to  do, 
in  her  despite,  as  well  as  in  his  own  despair,  he 
drew  the  long  keen  hunter's  knife  from  his  girdle, 
elevated  its  blade  sufficiently  in  air  to  make  the 


16  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

descending  blow  fatal,  and  in  another  instant  it 
would  have  found  its  sheath  in  his  heart,  when, 
just  in  the  nick  of  time,  his  arm  was  arrested  by  a 
grasp  from  behind.  He  turned  fiercely  upon  the 
unwelcome  intruder,  and  shrank  back  in  horror 
from  the  glance  that  met  his  own.  Whom  did  he 
see  ?  What  did  he  see  ?  Was  it  real,  or  was  it 
only  the  spectre  of  his  old  comrade,  the  gallant 
Conrade  Weickhoff,  who  was  reported  to  have 
perished  at  sea  full  three  years  before  f 

"  Conrade  Weickhoff!"  exclaimed  the  youth, 
half  in  horror,  half  in  inquiry. 

"  Rodolph  Steinmyer,"  was  the  response  of  the 
stranger,  who  smiled  in  the  most  natural  manner 
in  the  world  as  he  pronounced  the  name. 

"  Are  you  my  friend  Conrade  ?"  demanded 
Rodolph. 

"  More  like,  than  you  are  to  Rodolph  Stein 
myer,"  was  the  reply. 

"  And  living  ?" 

"  Did  you  not  feel  my  grasp  ?  Was  it  so  light 
that  you  have  need  to  ask  the  question .?" 

"  Whence  came  you,  Conrade  ?  Where  have 
you  been  ?  They  said  that  you  were  drowned  at 
sea ;  and  they  have  mourned  for  you  as  one  no 
longer  of  earth." 

A  wild  laugh,  and  a  bright  sarcastic  twinkle  of 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  17 

the  eye,  were  the  only  answer  which,  for  the  mo 
ment,  the  new  comer  gave  to  the  rapid  inquiries 
of  the  youth.  He  seemed  to  chuckle  pleasantly 
at  the  idea  of  being  a  dead  man  ;  and  there  was 
something  exceedingly  irreverent — so  Rodolph 
thought — in  the  manner 'of  his  ancient  comrade, 
while  dwelling  upon  this  topic.  But  Conrade 
was  always  a  wild  fellow,  whom  nobody  could 
manage,  and  who  was  reported,  indeed,  to  have 
given  himself  over  to  studies  and  practices  of  diabo 
lism.  So  general  was  the  opinion  among  his  friends, 
that  when  the  news  came  of  his  death  by  sea,  the 
remark  was  frequent  among  them,  that  the  devil 
had  reason  to  congratulate  himself  upon  the  acqui 
sition  of  a  new  companion,  so  much  after  the  fa 
shion  of  his  own  heart. 


X. 


The  first  surprise  being  over,  and  Rodolph  be 
ing  now  satisfied  that  it  was  Conrade  himself — a 
person  of  very  substantial  flesh  and  blood,  and  no 
ghost  —  that  stood  before  him,  the  conversation 
naturally  turned  upon  the  desperate  act  which 
Rodolph  had  been  about  to  commit,  when  his 
friend  so  opportunely  interrupted  him. 


18  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

"What  could  have  persuaded  you  to  this,  Ro- 
dolph  1  what  motive  for  this  rashness  ?"  was  the 
demand  of  Conrade. 

The  youth  told  his* story,  and  Conrade  chuck 
led  so  heartily  that  the  lover  grew  indignant. 

"  Why,  what  the  d — 1  do  you  find  in  it  to  laugh 
at  ?"  he  demanded  fiercely. 

"  Be  not  rash,"  said  the  other  ;  "  and,  I  pray 
you,  take  not  your  neighbor's  name  in  vain.  The 
devil  may  be  much  nearer  to  you  than  you  ima 
gine.  If  I  laugh,  I  mean  no  offence,  you  may  be 
sure.  I  only  laugh  at  the  folly  of  love,  which  so 
beguiles  and  misleads  men  of  otherwise  very  ex 
cellent  understanding.  Did  you  hope  to  get  the 
girl  by  cutting  your  throat?" 

"  Not  to  get  her,  surely  ;  but  to  live  without  her 
would  be  worse  than  death." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  I  think  not.  Life  is  com 
fortable,  always  provided  you  have  enough  of  it ; 
and  that  a  man  may  always  have,  if  he  will  look 
for  it  where  it  may  be  found.  But  what  do  you 
intend  now  to  do  ?  I  have  kept  you  from  death 
once ;  when  I  turn  my  back,  you  will  whip  out 
your  cold  steel  again,  and  try  the  thing  over,  and 
it  may  be,  another  time  I  shall  come  a  moment  or 
two  too  late." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Rodolph,  with  some  phlegm. 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  19 

"  Perhaps  is  no  answer  to  a  friend,"  said  the 
other,  taking  his  hand  affectionately.  "  Be  more 
like  yourself;  let  old  times  begin  again.  Let  us 
once  more  be  true  friends  to*  each  other  ;  for>  be 
lieve  me,  Rodolph,  though  time  has  been  between 
us,  and  we  have  been  so  long  separated,  I  feel  to 
ward  you  as  ever." 

Rodolph  could  not  reply,  but  he  returned  the 
gentle  squeeze  of  his  friend's  hand,  and  the  tears 
filled  his  eyes. 

"You  weep,  Rodolph,  and  I  am  answered," 
said  the  other.  "I  see  you  have  the  same  heart 
as  of  old.  I,  too,  have  been  left  unchanged  in  all 
my  trials.  We  are  again  friends." 

They  embraced  affectionately,  and  after  a  little 
interval  given  up  to  the  renewal  of  former  pledges, 
after  the  picturesque  and  sentimental  manner  com 
mon,  even  at  that  early  period,  among  the  Ger 
man  youth,  they  again  began  to  discourse  about 
the  purposed  deed  of  Rodolph,  and  the  causes 
which  had  led  to  it.  A  few  moments  were  passed 
by  Conrade  in  silence ;  then,  abruptly  speaking, 
he  demanded  : 

"And  you  are  required  to  man  your  castle,  re 
fit  and  repair  it,  and  altogether  exhibit  resources 
such  as  the  baron  with  a  long  name  f" 


20  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

The  youth  sighed  forth  a  melancholy  affirma 
tive. 

"You  shall  do  it,"  said  the  other. 

Rodolph  looked  up  angrily,  as  if  he  had  been 
laughed  at. 

"  You  shall  do  it." 

"  How  ?" 

"I  will  help  you  to  fortune." 

"You?" 

«  Yes  —  I  —  Conrade  Weickhoff.  It  shall  be 
the  first  proof  which  I  will  give  you  that  my  friend 
ship  for  you  is  the  same  that  it  ever  was.  I  am  able 
to  do  what  I  promise.  I  am  able  to  give  you  the 
means  to  go  forth  as  proudly  as  your  baron  with  a 
long  name,  and  to  exhibit  wealth  even  more  ex 
tensive.  We  shall  satisfy  Bertha's  parents,  and 
you  shall  have  the  maiden  without  delay." 

Rodolph  looked  on  his  friend  in  silent  wonder 
ment.  He  thought  him  dreaming.  He  knew 
that  Conrade's  family  had  been  quite  as  destitute 
as  his  own.  Where  could  he  have  got  his  new 
ability  to  do  what  he  promised.  He  must  surely 
be  mad,  thought  Rodolph  ;  but  when  he  looked 
at  Conrade,  never  did  face  seem  more  confident 
and  earnest.  The  expression  of  his  countenance 
was  conclusive. 

"  Speak  out,"  said  Rodolph,  impetuously ;  "  tell 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  21 

me  all ;  explain  to  me  the  sources  of  your  ability , 
and  torture  me  no  longer  with  a  hope  so  extrava 
gant  as  to  seem  desperate  and  foolish.  Let  me 
hear  upon  what  you  build,  that  I  may  know  whe 
ther  it  be  worth  while  to  live  for  it  or  not." 

"  It  is  always  worth  one's  while  to  live,  so  long 
as  there  are  maidens  like  Bertha  Staremberg  to 
live  with.  I  know  the  maiden  ;  she  is  a  heaven 
in  herself;  and  were  it  not,  dear  Rodolph,  for  my 
friendship,  I  should  certainly  seek  her  love  on  my 
own  account." 

"  Ha  !"  said  Rodolph,  furiously. 

But  the  other  checked  him  in  his  paroxysm. 

"  Fear  nothing,  I  am  not  your  rival.  I  will 
help  you  to  Bertha ;  the  means  are  even  now  in 
your  own  pctyer,  and  I  will  disclose  them  to  you. 
But  come  apart  with  me  to  some  pleasant  place, 
where  we  may  sit  while  talking.  There  is,  or 
should  be,  an  old  abbey  in  this  neighborhood, 
where  I  have  often  rambled.  The  grave  stone  of 
an  armed  knight  shall  yield  us  a  pleasant  seat,  and 
then  we  can  talk  more  freely.  I  hate  fatigue ; 
and  standing  up  when  one  can  sit,  is  like  submit 
ting  to  bondage  when  one  can  fly.  The  sense  of 
restraint  is,  of  all  others,  the  most  hateful  to  me  ; 
and,  when  I  can  help,  I  will  have  none  of  it. 
Come." 


22  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 


XI. 


They  went  to  a  spot  more  secluded  in  the  forest, 
and  there  they  found  an  old  abbey  church,  which 
Rodolph  did  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  be 
fore.  With  every  spot  of  it,  however,  his  compa 
nion  seemed  familiar  ;  he  talked  of  this  family  bu 
rial  place  and  of  that,  and  began  to  give  a  long 
history  of  the  knight  whose  crossed  legs  in  mar 
ble  they  were  then  sitting  upon,  and  he  might 
have  gone  into  details  of  a  thousand  years  —  for 
he  betrayed  a  strange  familiarity  with  past  events 
— had  not  Rodolph,  with  a  more  selfish  object, 
hurriedly  interrupted  him.  Conrade  laughed 
heartily  at  the  impatience  of  his  companion,  and 
his  pale  features  were  full  of  a  pleasantly  satirical 
expression,  and  his  eyes  danced  with  a  wild,  strange 
glare,  as  he  looked  quizzingly  upon  the  feverish 
restlessness  of  the  lover ;  but  he  saw  that  it  would 
not  do  to  tax  the  youth's  temper  too  far,  and  so 
he  proceeded  quietly  to  his  purposed  explanation. 

"  You  have  heard  of  the  late  Count  Oberfeldt 
of  Manfrein  ?"  he  demanded. 

"The  late  Count  Oberfeldt?  What!  is  he 
dead  ?"  responded  Rodolph. 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  23 

"  Died  last  night,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Why,  he  was  quite  well  —  I  saw  him  on  the 
edge  of  the  forest,  riding  with  a  stranger,  only 
two  days  ago.  He  must  have  died  suddenly." 

"  Quite  —  as  suddenly  as  a  sharp  knife,  such  as 
that  you  were  about  to  use  an  hour  ago,  could 
carry  him  off,  hurriedly  applied  to  the  carotid." 

"  Murdered  ?" 

"  No ;  he  committed  suicide." 

"  Is  it  possible?  He  was  always  a  bad  man!" 
remarked  Rodolph,  quite  thoughtlessly  and  inno 
cently. 

"  Ahem  !"  responded  the  other.  "  Bad  or  good, 
I  say  riot.  He  was  a  wild,  irregular,  strange  sort 
of  person,  whose  pleasures  and  pursuits  differed 
materially  from  those  of  tlfe  rest  of  the  world.  It 
is  not  for  us  to  say  whether  he  was  right  or  wrong 
in  their  adoption.  His  accountability  is  not  to 
us,  and  so  far  the  subject  is  foreign  to  our  dis 
course.  You  knew  him,  Rodolph  ?" 

The  question  was  answered  affirmatively. 

"  You  know  that  his  wealth  was  great  ?"• 

«  Yes." 

"  A  dozen  different  castles  —  fine  domains  every 
where  —  well  provided  ;  retainers  in  abundance  ; 
good  wines  and  wealth  in  profusion.  These  were 
his,  and,  strange  to  say,  though  living  a  profli- 


24  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

gate  life,  he   died  having  them  all  in  his  posses 
sion." 

"  Stranger  still,"  remarked  Rodolph,  "  that, 
having  them  in  possession,  he  should  voluntarily 
have  given  them  up." 

"Perhaps  not.  Satiety  is  a  worse  death  than 
the  knife.  It  is  the  death  of  that  necessary  pro 
vocative,  without  which  life  must  always  stagnate. 
Wise  men  pray  that  they  should  never  have  all 
their  desires  satisfied.  Oberfeldt  was  not  a  wise 
man.  His  desires  were  narrowed  to  his  animal 
propensities,  aud  he  was  unfortunate  enough  to 
grasp  and  gain  all  that  he  desired.  They  tired  him 
out  in  the  end,  and  grew  into  a  fatigue,  so  he  cut 
the  carotid,  and  got  rid  of  them." 

"  The  d— 1  has  him!"  said  Rodolph,  coolly. 
"  That 's  none  of  our  business,"  said  the  other, 
warmly;  <(  and  let  me  advise  you,  that  to  speak 
of  persons  with  whom  our  own  acquaintance  is 
imperfect,  is  not  always  to  do  them  justice.  You 
may  discover  that  truth  for  yourself  in  time  ;  for 
the  present,  let  us  talk  of  your  own  affairs,  and 
then  of  Oberfeldt' s,  so  far  as  they  may  concern 
you." 

"  But  how  can  the  affairs  of  Oberfeldt  concern 
me?     I  see  not  that,"  said  Rodolph,  impatiently. 
"  But  you  shall  see,  when  you  have  heard.    The 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  25 

great  wealth  of  Oberfeldt  is  to  be  divided,  and  you 
are,  if  you  desire  it,  one  of  his  legatees." 

"  If  I  desire  it !"  exclaimed  Rodolph,  hastily ; 
"  speak  out,  my  friend.  Wealth  to  me  is  every 
thing  at  this  moment ;  and  though  I  see  not  why 
Oberfeldt  should  have  left  me  any  of  his,  I  am  not 
unwilling  to  avail  myself  of  his  bequest.  I  should 
not  reject  one  from  the  d — 1  himself." 

"  You  are  only  too  accommodating,"  said  the 
other,  gravely.  "  But  hear.  You  are  one  of  his 
heirs,  if  you  desire  it.  He  was  a  singular  crea 
ture,  and  has  made  a  singular  disposition  of  his 
property.  He  has  left  it  subject  to  division, 
among  any  dozen  men  who  will  pledge  themselves 
to  follow  his  example  — " 

"  What !    cut  their  throats  ?" 

"  Even  so  ;  but  after  a  peculiar  plan.  He  does 
not  desire  them  to  cut  their  throats  on  the  instant, 
or  together.  He  requires  only  one  amateur  at  a 
time.  Once  a  year,  the  anniversary  of  his  own 
suicide,  is  to  be  celebrated  by  a  selection  from 
among  his  followers  —  his  college,  as  he  calls  them 
—  and  the  martyr  is  to  be  chosen  by  lot." 

"  Monstrous  idea  !"  said  Rodolph. 

"Very  !"  responded  the  other. 

"  And  what  then  ?"  said  Rodolph. 

"  Why,  only  this,"  was  the  reply ;  "  1  have  de- 

VOL.   II.  3 


26 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 


termined  to  avail  myself  of  all  the  advantages  of 
Oberfeldt's  will.  I  will  become  one  of  his  devi 
sees.  I  will  get  one  of  his  fine  castles.  I  will 
get  his  manors  and  retainers,  his  stock  and  his 
treasure.  I  will  take  all  that  the  bequest  bestows, 
I  am  fond  of  money,  for  its  power  and  its  purpo 
ses.  I  have  none  of  my  own.  It  matters  not  to 
me  whether  I  die  by  my  own  hand,  the  hand  of 
my  enemy,  or  the  worst  of  all  hands,  that  of  star 
vation.  Life  is  not  life,  unless  for  what  it  yields 
us.  I  do  not  deprive  myself  of  life,  if  I  lose  no 
thing  when  I  perish  ;  and  at  present  I  have  no 
thing  to  lose.  I  go  to-night,  with  others,  to  Man- 
frien  castle.  I  swear  to  the  performance  of  all  the 
conditions  exacted  by  the  will ;  I  jump  into  my 
new  possessions,  and  hasten  to  their  enjoyment. 
I  will  begin  to  live  from  that  hour;  heretofore  I 
have  not  lived — it  is  high  time  that  I  should.  I 
counsel  you  to  do  likewise.  Go  with  me  to 
night;  swear  with  me  to  the  conditions;  avail 
yourself  of  the  wealth  they  give  you,  and  be  happy 
while  you  may." 

"  Great  heaven  !"  exclaimed  the  other  :  "  How 
can  you  advise  me  thus,  Conrade  ?  how  can  you 
determine  thus  yourself  ?  What  !  pledge  myself 
to  commit  suicide  ?" 

"  What  were  you  but  just  now  about  to  do," 
demanded  the  other,  with  a  sneer,  "  when  I  came 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  27 

up  so  happily,  and  held  back  your  hand?  Is  the 
present  plan  worse  ?  Is  it  not  better  ;  far  better, 
in  all  respects  f  You  get  something  now  for  the 
commission  of  the  act,  when,  before,  you  could 
have  derived  no  advantage  from  it.  You  get  the 
very  wealth  you  wanted  ;  you  get  the  woman  you 
love,  who  else  would  be  lost  to  you  for  ever.  Can. 
you  hesitate  ?" 

Rodolph  bent  down  his  head.  It  sank  on  his 
bosom  despondingly.  The  thick  drops  of  perspi 
ration  stood  upon  his  brow,  for  a  great  mental 
strife  was  going  on  within. 

"  Think,"  said  the  tempter,  "  think  what  you 
will  gain  —  wealth,  Bertha.  Think  what  you 
will  lose  —  Bertha,  wealth  —  all  that  would  be 
worth  living  for." 

Rodolph  was  silent ;  the  other  continued  : 

"  And  she  will  be  the  victim,  not  less  than 
yourself;  the  old  baron  with  the  long  name  will 
bear  her  off  in  triumph.  She  will  be  immured  in 
his  castle  ;  her  arms  will  enfold  him  in  their  embra 
ces  ;  his  coarse  lips  will  riot  upon  the  sweet  inno 
cence  of  hers ;  he  — " 

"No  more  —  no  more,"  exclaimed  the  despe 
rate  youth,  tossing  his  hands  toward  heaven  ;  "  I 
will  go  with  you  to-night ;  I  will  swear  to  the 
conditions.  Bertha  shall  be  mine,  and  mine  only. 


28  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

I  cannot  live  without  her;  I  cannot  bear  that  she 
should  be  the  bride  of  another." 


XII. 

That  night  the  ceremonial  was  an  awful  one  in 
the  great  hall  of  Oberfeldt's  castle.  The  body  of 
the  suicide  lay  in  state  in  the  centre  of  the  apart 
ment,  which  was  illuminated  with  an  intense  glare, 
shooting  out  from  strangely  large  torches,  borne 
up  by  sable  figures  standing  in  its  many  niches 
and  embrasures.  The  corpse  presented  a  sight 
horrid  from  its  wounds,  and  hellish  from  it  expres 
sion.  The  head  had  been  nearly  severed  from 
the  shoulders,  by  the  desperate  stroke  which  the 
deceased  had  given  himself.  The  eyes  were  un 
closed  ;  the  lids  seemed  to  have  been  drawn  in 
under  the  brows,  and  the  whites  gleamed  out  with 
a  meteoric  lustre,  through  the  filmy  humidity  with 
which  death  had  wrapped  them.  The  testamen 
tary  document  lay  upon  the  breast  of  the  deceas 
ed.  His  hand,  still  grasping  the  fatal  knife,  with 
all  the  bloody  traces  of  the  deed  yet  upon  it,  rest 
ed  upon  the  paper.  Around  him  stood  the  per 
sons  who  were  prepared  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
dreadful  advantages  of  the  will  before  them.  Their 


CONRADE    WEiCKHOFF.  29 

number  was  completed  upon  the  entrance  of  Ro- 
dolph  and  his  friend.  The  lover  looked  upon 
the  scene  with  horror  ;  but  he  had  nerved  himself 
to  the  deed.  He  gazed  vacantly  upon  his  asso 
ciates  ;  and  his  passing  scrutiny  did  not  serve  to 
reconcile  him  in  any  great  degree  to  the  step 
which  he  was  about  to  take.  With  the  exception 
of  his  friend  Weickhoff,  he  saw  none  among  the 
assembled  college  before  him  who  had  any  claim 
to  gentility.  They  were  either  debauchees,  or 
gamblers,  spendthrifts,  and  wretches  who  fasten 
themselves  as  a  disease  upon  society,  and  contri 
bute  to  the  corruption  of  that  body  upon  which 
they  are  engrafted.  But  he  had  no  time  for  re 
flection.  Weickhoff  led  the  way,  and  by  his  auda 
city  evidently  controlled  the  rest.  He  drew  the 
document  from  the  grasp  of  the  suicide,  and  with 
out  the  pause  of  a  second,  dashed  down  his  sig 
nature  in  bloody  characters  at  the  foot  of  the  con 
ditional  pledge  which  followed  the  testament,  and 
to  which  its  reference  was  special,  and  done  after 
the  most  approved  legal  requisitions  of  those  ages. 
The  example  was  soon  followed  by  the  rest ;  and 
signature  after  signature  appeared  upon  the  fatal 
sheet,  until  Rodolph  was  the  only  one  left  who 
had  yet  to  sign.  He  lingered,  and  a  light  touch 
of  a  finger  pressed  upon  his  wrist.  It  went  like 

3* 


30  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

a  cold  wind  into  the  artery  beneath.  He  looked 
up  in  a  tremor,  and  his  eyes  met  those  of  Weick- 
hoff.  What  a  glance  did  they  encounter  !  So 
bright,  so  cold  ;  so  ironical,  yet  so  conciliating  ; 
such  a  sneer,  yet  such  a  smile.  There  was  a  mad 
prompter  in  the  heart  of  the  youth  at  that  moment, 
and  he  rushed  forward  to  the  body  of  the  dead 
man  ;  he  clutched  the  pen  in  his  fingers,  and  began 
writing  the  letters  of  his  name  after  the  rest.  As 
he  wrote,  to  his  great  horror  and  suprise,  the  same 
letters,  as  he  severally  wrote  than,  appeared  one 
after  the  other  in  a  blank  space  in  the  body  of  the 
instrument  above.  A  sickness  seized  upon  his 
heart ;  but  he  desperately  proceeded.  The  deed 
was  done  —  the  name  written  —  the  contract  was 
completed  ;  and,  in  the  next  moment,  he  felt  him 
self  clasped  in  the  arms  of  Weickhoff. 

"  Now,  indeed,  Rodolph,  my  friend,  you  are 
mine,"  was  the  exclamation  of  his  comrade.  What 
a  strength  seemed  in  the  nerves  of  Weickhoff! 
The  embrace  nearly  stifled  him ;  and  yet  Weick 
hoff  was  slender  in  the  extreme  ;  pale,  even  to 
wanness  ;  and  with  a  general  air  of  feebleness, 
which  looked  rather  like  disease  than  stength  or 
life.  Had  Rodolph  been  asked  the  question  be 
fore,  he  wonld  have  unhesitatingly  said  that  his 
own  were  infinitely  greater  than  the  physical  pow- 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF, 


31 


crs  of  Weickhoff;  yet  now  he  seemed  but  an  in 
fant  in  his  grasp.  But  Weickhoff  had  been  a  tra 
veller,  and  llodolph  naturally  enough  concluded 
that  he  had  acquired  hardihood  by  trial  and  ad 
venture. 


XIII. 

Revelry  of  all  sorts,  indulgences  the  most  wild, 
excesses  the  most  licentious,  followed  the  conclu 
sion  of  the  dreadful  ceremonial  in  the  castle  of 
Oberfeldt.  A  luxurious  banquet  was  prepared, 
and  every  temptation  of  gross  and  festering  de 
bauch,  common  to  that  era,  was  provided  and 
partaken  of  by  that  melancholy  circle  of  uncon 
genial  confederates.  The  terms  of  the  will  were 
read  to  them  by  Conrade,  who  took  a  leading  part 
in  their  festivities.  But,  though  of  appalling  and 
curious  nature,  there  was  but  one  of  all  the  col 
lege  that  heeded  its  conditions.  That  was  Ro- 
dolph.  He  listened  in  a  vague  sort  of  conscious 
ness.  His  feelings  and  thoughts  were  too  various 
and  crowded  to  suffer  him  to  think  correctly  ;  and 
the  emotions  with  which  he  felt  himself  seized,  were 
rather  those  of  a  young,  unsophisticated  heart, 
finding  itself,  for  the  first  time,  in  a  novel  and 


32  CONRADE    WEICKHOPF. 

strange  situation,  than  of  a  thinking  mind  engag 
ed  in  analyzing  it.  Conrade  discovered  this,  and 
plied  all  his  arts,  which  were  neither  mean  nor 
few,  in  order  to  dissipate  the  lover's  melancholy. 
He  succeeded  in  part.  He  dwelt  with  ridicule 
upon  the  passages  of  the  will  which  seemed  most 
to  have  impressed  the  youth  ;  then  adroitly  paint 
ing  the  happiness  which  must  follow  the  possession 
of  the  fortune,  in  giving  Bertha  to  his  arms,  he 
had  the  satisfaction  to  discover  that,  by  degrees, 
the  moody  apprehensions  of  the  youth  wore  ra 
pidly  away.  But  still  Rodolph  could  not  relish 
the  associates  around  him,  and  with  whom  he  found 
himself,  by  his  own  act,  associated  in  so  strange  a 
brotherhood.  Men  he  would  have  been  ashamed 
to  know  before,  he  now  found  himself  connected 
with  in  life  and  death.  That  death,  too,  now  that 
he  was  in  the  possession  of  the  means  of  life, 
seemed  to  have  acquired  terrors  which  it  had  not 
some  few  hours  ago.  He  had  never  asked  him 
self  the  difference  of  situation  and  mind  between 
the  desperately  hopeless  man,  and  him  to  whom 
the  world  is  full  of  hope  and  promise.  He  was 
yet  to  learn  this  difference.  The  glozing  lips  of 
the  tempter  had  persuaded  him  too  readily  to  be 
lieve  that  suicide  at  one  moment  and  at  another 
was  the  same  thing  to  the  same  person,  and  he  had 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  33 

admitted  too  readily  a  proposition  so  false,  as  one 
entirely  true.  There  are  times  when  it  is  not  dif 
ficult  to  part  with  life  —  alas  !  how  often  is  it  the 
case  that  we  would  rather  give  up  heaven  itself 
than  lose  it ! 


XIV. 

At  a  late  hour  the  college  separated.  The  sit 
ting  was  broken  up,  and  the  several  members  pre 
pared  to  retire  to  the  spoils  and  possessions  which 
the  will  of  Oberfeldt  had  assigned  them.  The 
dangers  and  conditions  of  that  will ;  the  pledges 
of  terror  which  they  had  made  —  filled  as  they 
were  with  wine  and  frolic,  and  gloating  on  the  vast 
wealth  placed  within  their  enjoyment —  gave  them 
but  little  concern.  Their  next  celebration  was 
required  to  be  held  at  the  same  place,  on  the  same 
night  of  the  ensuing  year.  A  year  was  secured 
to  them  of  licentious  and  unrestrained  enjoyment ; 
and  to  most  of  them  a  new  world  of  happiness 
was  opened  upon  them  by  this  heretofore  unknown 
privilege.  They  gave  themselves  but  little  con 
cern  about  the  one  of  their  number  who  'must  be 
chosen  for  the  next  year's  sacrifice.  It  was  enough 
that  they  had  a  bond  of  fate  for  that  period  of  time. 


34  COXRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

Reckless  in  their  lives  before,  they  were  not  less 
so  in  reference  to  the  hour  of  their  death.  They 
could  lose  but  little,  as  life  had  never  fairly  been 
possessed  by  any  among  them. 

The  thoughts  of  Rodolph  troubled  him  more 
greatly  on  this  subject ;  but  the  presence  of  Con- 
rade,  who  clung  to  his  friend,  and  employed  his 
mind  and  fancy  by  a  continual  reference  to  Ber 
tha  Staremberg,  served  to  keep  them  down  and 
to  restrain  them.  They  did  not  separate  as  did 
the  rest. 

"  I  will  attend  you,"  said  Conrade  ;  "you  must 
instantly  seek  Bertha,  or  you  may  be  too  late. 
Your  baron  with  the  long  name  may  be  in  a  hur 
ry,  and  Staremberg  has  shown  you  that  he  does 
not  hold  you  of  sufficient  importance,  though  he 
loved  your  father  so  very  much,  to  wait  any  very 
long  time  for  his  son.  Your  retainers,  I  see,  are 
ready ;  and  Oberfeldt,  like  a  hospitable  man,  has 
provided  handsomely  for  his  friends.  These 
dresses  are  very  rich.  Follow  my  example." 

In  an  instant  Conrade  Weickhoif  arrayed  him 
self  in  a  splendid  suit,  that  lay  on  the  table  before 
him,  which  was  covered  with  the  richest  dresses  of 
every  pattern  and  size.  Without  pause  for  reflec 
tion,  Rodolph  did  the  same,  and  they  were  soon 
equipped.  In  the  court  below  fine  horses  were 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

caparisoned ;  and  Weickhoff  did  not  scruple  to 
single  out  a  noble  barb  for  himself,  while  designa 
ting  another  for  his  friend.  They  were  soon 
mounted,  and  the  morning  sun  found  them  scouring 
over  the  space  which  separated  the  two  castles  of 
Oberfeldt  and  Staremberg. 


XV. 

You  should  have  seen  Rodolph  Steinmyer  and 
his  friend  Conrade  Weickhoff,  on  their  fine  black 
chargers,  come  prancing  into  the  courtyard  of 
Staremberg.  You  should  have  seen  the  conster 
nation  of  all  the  spectators.  The  baron  with  the 
long  name  stood  aghast ;  but  a  moment  before  he 
had  been  certain  of  his  prey,  of  which  he  now  felt 
exceedingly  doubtful.  Staremberg  looked  wild, 
but  not  dissatisfied;  while  his  lady,  dazzled  by  the 
guady  trappings  of  the  horses  and  their  riders, 
could  only  lift  up  her  skinny  hands,  and  exclaim : 

"  My  eyes  !  my  eyes  !" 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  presence  of 
Rodolph  became  very  agreeable  to  the  father  and 
mother,  no  less  than  to  the  daughter.  They  were 
delighted  with  him,  and  his  horses,  and  his  friends, 
and  his  retainers,  and  every  thing  that  was  his. 


36  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

There  were  now  no  objections  to  his  suit.  The  ba 
ron  always  had  loved  Rodolph  as  he  had  loved  his 
father.  It  was  only  a  strange  obliquity  of  under 
standing  on  the  youth's  part  that  kept  him  from 
making  the  discovery.  The  old  lady  had  all 
along  desired  that  Rodolph  should  be  the  choice 
of  her  daughter ;  it  was  only  a  proper  feeling  of 
maternal  pride  that  had  prompted  her  to  say  the 
contrary.  It  was  strange  how  naturally  and  well 
all  old  difficulties  were  smoothed  and  explained 
away ;  and  Rodolph,  good  youth  !  only  wonder 
ed  at  his  own  dullness,  at  not  having  seen  things 
in  their  proper  light  before. 

"  My  son,"  exclaimed  the  dear  old  baroness,  in 
a  fit  of  enthusiastic  fondness,  "  the  desire  of  my 
heart  is  now  realized ;  I  can  go  down  to  the 
grave  in  peace,  since  you  are  to  be  the  husband  of 
my  daughter." 

Conrade  Weickhoff  chuckled  irreverently  and 
loud.  The  baron  with  the  long  name  expostu 
lated  ;  but  Staremberg  told  him  bluntly  that  he 
had  never  loved  his  father  as  he  had  loved  the 
father  of  Rodolph ;  a  speech  which  the  bachelor 
knight  took  in  high  dudgeon,  but  without  receiv 
ing  any  redress  for  it.  That  night  a  wild,  prac 
tical  joke  which  Conrade  Weickhoff  played  oft 
upon  him,  sent  him  away  half  dead  with  affright, 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  37 

half  naked,  and  at  midnight.  The  wooing  went 
on  smoothly  after  this ;  no  difficulties  stood  in  the 
way,  all  parties  were  satisfied,  and  the  marriage 
followed  as  soon  as  circumstances  would  permit, 
In  the  arms  of  the  lovely  Bertha,  Rodolph  almost 
forgot  the  dreadful  ceremonial  which  he  had  wit 
nessed,  and  of  which  he  had  partaken,  at  the  castle 
of  Oberfeldt. 


XVI. 

But  he  was  not  allowed  to  forget  so  readily. 
His  friend  Conrade  Weickhoff,  like  a  true  friend, 
kept  him  in  memory  of  his  honorable  engage 
ments.  During  the  honeymoon,  however,  Con 
rade  most  strangely  kept  aloof  from  the  dwelling 
of  the  lovers ;  and,  for  that  brief  period,  it  may 
safely  be  affirmed  that  never  was  dwelling  more 
favored  by  the  sunshine  of  happiness.  The  two, 
thus  united,  seemed  only  to  live  for  one  another ; 
and  such  was  the  warmth  and  strength  of  their 
mutual  attachment,  that  the  most  casual  or  close 
observer  must  have  seen  that  their  future  joy,  if  it 
depended  only  upon  themselves,  must  be  un 
alloyed  and  permanent.  Alas!  it  did  not  de 
pend  entirely  upon  themselves.  The  alloy  was 

VOL.  II.  4 


38  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF, 

at  hand,  and  the  friend  of  Rodolph,  strange  to 
say,  was  the  first  to  administer  it.  A  month 
had  passed,  or  more,  when  Conrade  suddenly 
made  his  appearance.  Will  it  be  believed,  that 
Rodolph  was  pained  to  see  him  ?  So  it  was.  The 
presence  of  his  friend  brought  with  it  the  recollec 
tion  of  the  dreadful  engagement  which  he  had 
made,  and  to  which  he  had  seduced  him.  He 
sickened  at  his  sight,  and  turned  away.  But  his 
aversion  was  not  seen  by  Conrade ;  at  least,  the 
latter  did  not  seem  to  see  it.  He  resolutely  ap 
proached,  and  took  the  hand  of  Rodolph  in  his 
own,  and  addressed  him  in  the  soothing  and  sweet 
language  of  friendship.  But  even  the  tones  of  his 
voice,  so  soft  and  pleasant  to  his  ear,  and  the 
words  of  good  faith  which  Conrade  uttered,  were 
all  neutralized  by  a  strange,  taunting  laugh,  a 
suppressed  chuckle,  which  his  friend  of  late  had 
most  unaccountably  adopted. 

"  D — n  that  strange  laugh  which  you  have," 
said  Rodolph,  abruptly  ;  "I  do  not  like  it ;  it 
goes  like  a  cold  wind  into  my  bones.  Where  the 
d 1  did  you  pick  it  up  f" 

"  You  do  not  like  it,  then  ?"  said  the  other,  and 
he  laughed  again,  more  unpleasantly  than  ever. 

"  Like  it,  Conrade !  How  should  I  ?  It  is  the 
strangest,  most  annoying  chuckle  I  ever  heard  in 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  39 

my  life.  Drop  it,  for  my  sake,  I  pray  you,  and 
take  up  some  better  habit." 

Conrade  was  obliging  enough. 

"  I  will  try  to  rid  myself  of  it,"  said  he,  "  since 
it  annoys  you,  though  the  effort  will  be  a  hard 
one.  It  is  so  natural  to  me." 

"Natural  to  yon!"  exclaimed  Rodolph;  "why, 
I  do  not  remember  to  have  ever  heard  it  before 
you  went  to  sea  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not ;  it  is  a  foreign  acquisition,  no 
doubt,  and  not  the  less  natural  for  being  so.  The 
journey  through  life  is  chiefly  taken  that  we  may 
pick  up  our  nature  as  we  go  along.  Our  nature 
is  not  born  with  us,  as  foolish  people  imagine. 
We  choose  it  from  a  variety,  as  we  choose  our 
dresses  ;  and  our  happiness  depends  very  much 
upon  the  sort  of  stuff  and  color  we  make  choice 
of.  Perhaps,  if  you  observe  closely,  you  will  see 
that  the  most  fickle  people  are  those  who  have  a 
variety — the  most  fortunate  those  who  have  but 
one.  It  is  my  error  to  have  chosen  some  that  do 
not  sit  graciously  ;  that  laugh,  for  example,  which 
you  do  not  like.  My  smile  pleases  you  better, 
I  doubt  not  ?" 

And  Conrade,  as  he  spoke,  turned  his  glance 
upon  the  face  of  Rodolph,  with  an  expression 
which  was  even  more  annoying  to  the  youth  than 


40  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

the  chuckle  of  which  he  had  complained.  He 
was  about  to  say  so  to  his  companion,  but  the 
fear  of  being  thought  querulous,  and  his  own  in 
creasing  consciousness  of  a  state  of  nervous  exci 
tability,  determined  him  to  say  nothing. 

"  I  am  feverish,  I  think,  this  evening,  Con 
rade,"  he  said  to  his  friend  ;  "  do  you  not  think 
so?" 

He  extended  his  hand  as  he  spoke  ;  but  when 
the  fingers  of  Conrade  pressed  the  wrist,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  chilled  as  by  an  ague.  He 
withdrew  his  arm  instantly,  and  looked  with  as 
tonishment  upon  his  comrade,  whose  smile,  like 
that  of  a  basilisk,  was  fixed  upon  him. 

"  You  are  disordered,"  said  Conrade,  a  moment 
after,  with  a  show  of  concern  in  his  countenance. 
"  You  should  take  medicine.  I  will  ride  over  to 
Oberfeldt's  castle,  and  get  you  something.  He 
had  a  fine  laboratory,  and  made  his  own  chemi 
cals." 

"  God  forbid  !"  exclaimed  Rodolph  ;  "  Noth 
ing  from  that  d — nable  place,  in  heaven's  name." 

"  We  will  not  speak  of  the  absent,"  responded 
the  other  gravely.  "  But  let  us  to  the  castle ; 
some  wine  will  cheer  us  both,  and,  possibly,  put 
you  in  better  health  and  spirits," 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  41 


XVII. 

"Rodolph,  dear  Rodolph!"  said  Bertha  one 
day  to  her  husband,  standing  at  the  castle  en 
trance,  and  looking  forth  upon  the  retreating 
figure  of  Conrade  Weickhoff,  who  had  just  left 
them ;  "  there  is  something  about  the  baron  Weick 
hoff  that  is  very  annoying  to  me.  I  do  not  like 
him,  Rodolph." 

"  He  is  my  friend,  Bertha,"  responded  Rodolph, 
with  a  gravity  that  seemed  to  rebuke  her  no  less 
than  his  language. 

"I  know  it,  dear  Rodolph,  and  I  try  to  like 
him,  because  he  is  your  friend ;  but  forgive  me, 
dear  Rodolph,  when  I  tell  you  that  all  my  efforts 
are  in  vain.  I  cannot  like  him  ;  I  do  not  feel  at 
ease  in  his  presence." 

The  youth  looked  curiously  upon  the  blooming 
and  blushing  woman  of  his  heart,  and,  strange  to 
say,  he  loved  her  the  more  because  she  could  not 
tolerate  his  friend.  He  dared  not  speak  out  his 
feelings  and  thoughts,  however,  for  there  was  be 
tween  the  two  a  manifest  contradiction  which  he 
had  sought,  but  vainly,  to  reconcile.  In  his  own 
estimation,  Conrade  had  ever  been  his  friend.  In 

4* 


42  CONRADE    WEICKHOFP. 

boyhood  they  were  inseparable,  and,  certainly, 
the  very  possession  of  his  wife  and  present  hap 
piness  was  owing  entirely  to  Conrade.  Should 
he  oppose  to  these  substantial  services  the  capri- 
ciousness  of  taste  which  found  fault  with  a  look,  a 
glance,  or  a  ridiculous  chuckle?  Nothing  could 
be  more  idle  or  unjust  in  the  eye  of  reason  and 
good  sense ;  yet,  in  his  heart,  that  glance  and 
chuckle  were  more  than  enough  to  counterbalance 
all  the  substantial  services  which  his  friend  had 
rendered  him. 

"  And  what  is  there,  dear  Bertha,  in  Conrade 
Weickhoff  that  displeases  you  ?" 

"  He  is  so  cold,"  said  she,  innocently. 

"  Indeed  !"  exclaimed  the  other,  not  altogether 
so  well  pleased  with  his  wife,  and  rather  more 
pleased  with  his  friend.  "Indeed  —  cold  —  in 
what  manner,  Bertha  f" 

"  He  seems  to  have  lost  all  human  sensibilities," 
was  her  reply.  "  When  he  speaks,  it  is  only  to 
sneer  at  his  neighbors.  Does  he  hear  of  any  vir 
tues  which  they  possess,  he  is  sure  to  know  and  to 
speak  of  their  defects  and  foibles.  He  laughs, 
too,  at  sacred  things  —  at  age  and  character  — 
and  does  not  seem  to  relish  the  respect  which 
others  show  to  them.  Then  that  strange,  horrid 
laugh,  which  he  has ;  and  sometimes,  when  you 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  43 

turn  suddenly,  you  catch  his  eye  fixed  upon  you 
with  a  staring  sx>rt  of  contempt,  which  puts  me, 
for  all  the  world,  in  mind  of  the  Mephistopheles 
whom  you  remember  to  have  seen  upon  the  tapes 
try  in  the  old  hall  at  Staremberg,  where  he  tempts 
our  ancestor,  the  Teuton,  on  the  brow  of  the  Harz, 
He  sometimes  frightens  me  to  look  at  him,  and 
my  blood  is  chilled  when  he  speaks  to  me,  or 
laughs.  I  cannot  like  him,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Nor  I,"  thought  Rodolph,  but  he  did  not  say 
it.  The  words  of  Bertha  saddened  him  more  than 
ever,  though  he  loved  her  the  more  when  he  found 
how  large  was  the  degree  of  sympathy  between 
them.  A  common  aversion  is  not  unfrequently 
the  occasion  of  a  common  love. 


XVIII. 

"Your  wife  does  not  like  me,  Rodolph,"  said 
Conrade  to  the  former,  one  day,  some  time  after 
this  interview.  "I  am  too  blunt;  I  speak  out 
my  mind  too  freely,  and  so  offend  her.  She  has 
been  brought  up  by  that  old  beldam,  your  mother- 
in-law  of  Staremberg  —  forgive  me,  Rodolph,  if 
I  cannot  speak  very  affectionately  of  her  —  and 
has  imbibed  many  of  those  antiquated,  stiff  notions, 


44  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

which  would  fetter  all  freedom  of  speech  and  in 
tercourse.  I  am  a  plain  man,  and  can't  bend  my 
self  to  conciliate  people  of  his  temper.  You  must 
take  me  as  you  find  me,  or  not  at  all.  I  know  I 
have  my  faults  ;  I  am  neither  very  amiable  nor 
very  handsome.  I  have  seen  the  world,  and, 
thanks  to  Oberfeldt,  I  am  quite  too  independent 
to  find  it  necessary  to  play  the  hypocrite,  and  give 
men  credit  for  qualities  which  they  have  not. 
Your  wife  loves  not  ascetics,  and  I  am  too  much 
of  one  to  please  her.  Better,  therefore,  that  I 
should  cease  to  trouble  you  with  my  visits.  Now 
and  then  I  may  look  in  upon  you,  and  I  need  not 
say  how  ready  I  am,  with  the  old  feeling,  to  serve 
you  whenever  you  need  me.  In  such  case,  all  that 
you  need  do,  is  to  visit  me.  I  shall  always  re 
joice  to  see  one  so  dear  to  me." 

Rodolph  tried  to  explain  for,  and  to  excuse  his 
wife  ;  an  error  of  judgment,  which  a  wise  husband 
will  never  commit. 

"  You  mistake  Bertha  entirely,  my  dear  Con- 
rade ;  you  do  her  injustice.  Her  reserve  is  na 
tural  to  her,  and  she  meets  every  body  as  she 
meets  you." 

"  No,  no,  Rodolph,  I  know  better.  The  dif 
ference  is  marked  between  her  reception  of  me  and 
others." 

'By  heaven,  Conrade,  but  it  shall  not  be  so. 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  45 

You  are  my  friend,  and  my  wife  shall  treat  you  as 
such." 

Strangely  contradictory  were  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  Rodolph  on  this  occasion.  Conscious 
himself  of  a  changed  temper  toward  his  friend,  he 
sought  to  hide  the  alteration  from  scrutiny  by  a 
show  of  proper  indignation  toward  his  innocent 
wife ;  and  he  fumed  and  foamed  for  ten  minutes 
in  violent  speech  accordingly. 

"Nay,  be  not  angry,  Rodolph,"  said  his  com 
panion,  in  a  style  of  soothing  which  was  exceed 
ingly  annoying. 

"  I  will  be  angry,  Conrade.  I  have  reason  to 
be  angry.  My  wife  do  injustice  to  my  friend!  I 
will  be  angry !" 

A  sarcastic  smile  played  over  the  lips  of  Con 
rade  at  this  insincere  ebullition.  Well  he  knew 
that  Rodolph's  aversion  was  not  less  strong  than 
that  of  Bertha's  ;  but  he  took  especial  care  to 
conceal  his  conviction  on  this  subject.  Rodolph, 
in  the  mean  while,  hurried  to  Bertha's  chamber, 
leaving  Conrade  in  the  hall.  He  had  worked 
himself  into  a  petty  sort  of  fury,  by  repeating 
Conrade's  language  to  himself  as  he  went  through 
the  passages,  and  he  was  in  no  small  tempest  when 
he  came  into  her  presence.  The  fury  of  his  first 
assault  astounded  her,  and  she  could  not  reply, 


46  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

till,  all  on  a  sudden,  she  beheld  the  glaring  eyes 
of  Conrade  peeping  through  the  opened  door  of 
the  apartment.  A  new  emotion  —  a  sudden 
strength,  which  seemed  supernatural  —  possessed 
her  on  the  instant.  She  darted  from  her  seat, 
threw  herself  before  the  little  family  altar  that 
stood  by  the  bedside,  and  prayed  aloud  to  heaven. 
The  practical  rebuke  was  felt  by  her  husband. 
He  sank  down  before  the  altar  beside  her,  and 
their  mutual  hands  were  clasped  in  prayer.  When 
she  looked  round  to  the  door  of  the  apartment, 
the  face  of  Conrade  Weickhoff  was  no  longer  to 
be  seen. 


XIX. 

A  month  had  passed  before  Conrade  again 
visited  Rodolph.  In  ttiat  period  a  change  had 
taken  place  in  the  dwelling  of  the  latter.  Bertha 
and  her  young  husband  were  happier  than  ever. 
She  was  "  as  women  wish  to  be,  who  love  their 
lords."  Her  heart  was  light  now,  like  that  of  a 
bird  in  spring.  He,  too,  though  troubled  some 
times  with  serious  thoughts,  was  yet  conscious 
of  an  intenser  satisfaction  than  his  heart  had 
ever  known  before.  Conrade  beheld  this  at 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  4? 

a  glance.  His  manner  was  more  guarded  than 
usual.  His  temper  seemed  to  be  subdued.  He 
was  even  conciliatory,  though  reserved ;  and,  in 
the  flush  of  her  heart's  tide  of  joyful  emotions, 
Bertha  half  forgot  her  old  hostility.  She  even 
smiled  freely  upon,  and  talked  with  the  ancient 
friend  of  her  husband ;  the  whole  world,  at  that 
moment,  seeming  to  her  young  and  delighted 
spirits,  full  of  associations  which  were  all  good 
and  beautiful. 

Conrade  congratulated  Rodolph  upon  the 
grateful  prospect  before  him,  and  in  a  manner 
which  was  far  less  disagreeable  than  usual.  He 
spent  the  day  pleasantly  enough  with  his  friend ; 
but  left  the  castle  after  sunset,  alleging  a  pressing 
necessity  for  his  presence  elsewhere.  On  leaving, 
however,  he  amply  made  amends  to  himself  for 
his  own  forbearance.  His  last  words,  at  parting, 
left  a  sting  that  rankled  dreadfully  in  the  bosom 
of  the  youth.  The  words  were  simple  enough, 
and  seemed  only  a  passing  inquiry. 

"  What  month  is  this,  Rodolph  ?"  said  he,  as 
it  were  unconsciously,  while  mounting  his  sable 
steed. 

"  July,"  was  the  stammered  reply. 

"  July  !"  Conrade  seemed  to  muse  a  while  ; 
then  speaking  as  follows,  he  rode  away : 


48  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

"I  shall  not  see  you  for  some  time,  Rodolph  ; 
not,  I  think,  before  November.  Then  I  must  see 
yon,  you  know." 

Big  drops  stood  upon  the  brow  of  Rodolph ; 
he  rushed  to  the  gloomiest  chamber  of  his  castle, 
and  he  felt  not  that  night  the  caresses  of  his  wife. 
Well  did  he  understand  the  significant,  yet  simple 
language  of  his  friend.  The  fifth  of  November 
was  the  first  anniversary  after  the  self-murder  of 
Oberfeldt. 


XX. 

It  came  too  rapidly  —  that  dreadful  month. 
We  need  not  try,  we  should  fail  utterly,  to  describe 
the  agony  of  Rodolph,  at  its  approach.  It  was  a 
madness  —  that  subdued  sort  of  madness  in  which, 
while  the  faculties  of  mind  all  struggle  in  confu 
sion,  there  is  still  a  sufficient  consciousness  of  its 
own  impotence  and  utter  despair,  to  restrain  it 
from  any  vain  and  idle  ebullition.  In  a  few  days 
the  flesh  seemed  to  have  fallen  from  his  bones  ; 
his  eyes  were  lustreless,  yet  full  of  a  feverish  glare, 
Jike  those  of  Weickhoff,  and  seemed  shooting  out 
from  their  sockets.  His  very  limbs  seemed  pal 
sied,  and  refused  their  offices.  He  was  incapable 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  49 

of  exertion,  All  things  contributed  to  this  agony 
of  soul  under  which  he  labored.  The  pregnancy 
of  Bertha  had  advanced  greatly.  A  few  days, 
and  he  might  be  a  father;  and  she,  as  this  thought 
came  to  her  mind,  she  clung  to  her  husband  with 
all  the  strength  of  a  new-born  passion,  and,  bury 
ing  her  head  in  his  bosom,  dwelt  fondly  upon  the 
blessing  which  was  at  hand.  How  more  than 
sweet  was  life  at  that  moment !  How  dreadful 
the  idea  of  death,  as  an  appointed  prospect  in  the 
vista  of  time  !  How  much  more  dreadful  the 
strong  probability  of  that  death,  so  near,  and  so 
terrible,  which  the  coming  anniversary  announced ! 
Wonder  not  that  he  thrust  the  one  most  beloved 
of  all  from  his  arms,  when  these  awful  images 
assailed  him.  Wonder  not  that  he  rushed  away 
from  her  embrace  to  the  deepest  cell  of  his  castle, 
and  threw  himself  in  utter  abandonment  of  soul 
upon  the  cold  and  clammy  pavement. 

The  night  came  —  a  night  of  exceeding  beauty. 
Rodolph  moved  through  his  dwelling  like  a  blind 
man.  He  tottered  in  his  mental  incertitude,  not 
less  than  in  his  body's  debility.  He  was  about  to 
visit  his  wife  in  her  chamber,  when  he  was  con 
scious  that  some  one  stood  suddenly  beside  him. 
He  looked  round,  and  it  was  Conrade  Weickhoff. 

"  The  hour  is  late,   Rodolph,"  said   Conrade, 

VOL.    II.  5 


50  CONRADE    WEICKHO^F. 

"  we  hive  little  time  to  spare.  Your  horse  is 
saddled  in  the  court.  We  must  keep  our  en 
gagements." 

"God  of  heaven !  Conrade,"  exclaimed  the 
youth,  "  how  can  you  speak  of  this  accursed  busi 
ness  so  coolly  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?  I  had  long  since  prepared  my 
mind  for  it,"  said  the  other,  "  and  so,  I  presume, 
had  you." 

"No  — no  !  —  The  thought  is  dreadful!" 

"  Nor  will  it  be  less  so  by  poring  over  it.  But 
why  should  this  thought  be  so  dreadful  to  you 
now?  You  are  only  in  the  same  situation  in  which 
I  found  you  a  year  ago,  even  should  it  fall  to  your 
lot  to  perish.  Then,  only  for  my  hand,  you  would 
have  done  that,  the  image  of  which  now  so  dread 
fully  affrights  you.  I  see  not  the  substantial 
difference." 

But  there  was  a  substantial  difference,  and  Ro- 
dolph  saw  and  felt  it.  How  desolate  was  he  then 
—  how  hopeless  —  how  desperate  in  love  and 
fortune  —  with  how  little  to  live  for!  Now  — 
what  had  he  not,  in  possession,  calculated  to  make 
him  in  love  with  life  —  what  sweet  ties  —  what 
ministering  affections  —  what  hopes  —  what  joys, 
what  desires  and  delights  !  He  reproached  his 
friend  bitterly,  as  he  thought  upon  these  things. 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  -51 

«  Would  that  I  had  never  seen  you,  Conrac'e," 
he  exclaimed,  bitterly. 

"  I  should  have  been  spared  this  language, 
then,"  said  the  other,  with  a  tone  of  reproach, 
which  had  its  effect  upon  the  sensitive  mind  of  the 
hearer.  Rodolph  was  too  much  of  a  dependant 
upon  his  friend  to  quarrel  with  him  ;  and  begging 
his  forgiveness,  he  inquired  into  some  trifling  par 
ticulars  connected  with  the  coming  proceedings  at 
the  castle  of  Oberfeldt. 

"  The  chances  are  no  more  against  you,  Ro 
dolph,  than  against  myself  and  all  the  rest.  It  all 
depends  on  fortune.  Your  good  luck  has  always 
been  conspicuous  ;  it  will  not  fail  you  now." 

"  True,  true,"  said  the  other,  musingly,  and 
with  renewed  hope  ;  but  a  moment  after,  his  brow 
became  clouded  again. 

"  But  it  must  come  some  day  or  other,  Conrade 
—  next  year  or  the  next." 

"  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof. 
Death  itself  must  come  some  day  or  other,  and 
with  this  greater  disadvantage,  that  you  have  no 
specified  time  for  preparation.  The  Oberfeldt 
contract  takes  nobody  by  surprise.  But  the  lot 
may  never  fall  to  you,  Rodolph." 

"  How  ?  —  it  must  some  day  or  other." 

"  No  !  our  college  is  never  less.     For  every 


52  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

man  taken  from  us  by  lot,  we  choose  another 
member  to  fill  his  place,  from  applicants  who  are 
always  sufficiently  numerous.  The  new  comer 
shares  the  chances  with  you  precisely  as  did  the 
old  ;  and  as  luck's  all,  it  may  be  that  it  shall 
never  fall  to  you  to  perish  by  your  own  hand ; 
and  you  may  die,  in  a  ripe  old  age,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  most  quiet  abbot,  in  all  the  odor  of 
sanctity,  and  with  all  the  comfortings  of  a  full 
household  around  you." 

The  gamester's  hope  consoled  and  strengthened 
Rodolph. 

"  I  will  be  ready  in  a  moment,"  said  he. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  But  for  a  moment  —  I  would  see  Bertha." 

11  Better  not  ;  yon  will  only  mingle  useless 
tears." 

"I  must  go!"  said  Rodolph,  firmly;  "  I  must 
tell  her  that  I  am  about  to  ride  forth  for  an  hour 
or  two,  or  she  will  be  alarmed." 

Conrade  chuckled,  but  did  not  seek  farther  to 
restrain  his  friend.  The  parting  between  Rodolph 
and  his  wife  —  he  suffering  all  the  agony  of  his 
situation,  yet  under  the  necessity  of  hiding  it  from 
her ;  and  she  full  of  all  the  tenderness  of  a  wife, 
so  soon  to  become  a  mother  —  was  a  trying  one 
to  him,  and  a  sweetly  tearful  one  to  her. 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  53 

"  God  bless  you,  dear  Rodolph,  and  return 
you  soon." 

He  hurried  away,  and  the  two  friends  were 
soon  mounted  upon  their  fierce  and  coal-black 
steeds.  They  employed  neither  whip  nor  spur, 
yet  they  flew  over  the  space  between  the  two 
castles,  before  Rodolph  conceived  himself  to  be 
fairly  on  the  road. 


XXL 

They  arrived  late,  but  still  in  season.  It  was 
yet  half  an  hour  to  twelve,  and  Rodolph  had 
sufficient  time  to  survey  the  assembly.  What  a 
motley  crew !  A  full  year  had  passed  since  he 
had  seen  them,  and  yet,  on  most  of  them,  what  a 
change  had  that  time  brought  about !  Dissipa 
tion  had  done  its  work.  Unaccustomed  resources 
had  brought  unaccustomed  indulgence.  The 
wallow  of  the  beast  had  swallowed  up  the  spirit 
of  the  man ;  and  degradation  had  succeeded  to 
licentiousness,  with  the  unerring  rapidity  of  an 
upward  flying  spark.  Rodolph,  who,  in  the  arms 
of  a  faithful  and  pure  wife,  had  kept,  to  a  certain 
extent  at  least,  the  original  whiteness  of  his  soul, 
turned  from  them  in  disgust.  Their  foul  and 


54  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

brutal  language  frightened  as  well  as  disgusted 
him,  Conrade,  on  the  contrary,  whose  mental 
and  moral  man  was  infinitely  more  flexible,  ca 
roused  and  clamored  with  them  most  freely  after 
their  own  fashion.  He  did  not  seem  to  dislike,  but 
rather  appeared  desirous  of  promoting  their  ex 
cesses.  The  wine  cup  was  freely  plied,  and  yet 
Rodolph  could  see  that,  while  filling  for  others, 
his  friend  himself  drank  nothing.  Yet  his  laugh 
—  that  strange  laugh  —  was  among  the  loudest, 
and  his  words  had  sway  over  the  boisterous  group 
of  turbulents  that  gathered  in  a  mass  around  him. 

Suddenly,  the  heavily  swinging  bell,  in  the 
tower  overhead,  thundered  out  the  hour.  The 
heart  of  Rodolph  died  away  within  him.  His 
bones  were  chilled  — his  blood  frozen  —  his  knees 
tottered  feebly  beneath  the  burden  of  his  own 
weight.  The  eyes  of  Conrade  were  upon  him  — 
his  words  were  in  his  ears  — 

"Rodolph?" 

Cold  sweat  stood  in  massive  drops  upon  the 
youth's  forehead,  and  his  lips  parted  feebly  in  a 
vain  effort  at  a  hurried  prayer.  The  wild  chuckle 
of  his  friend  at  this  moment  drove  away  the 
pleading  minister  at  heaven's  gates  ;  and  desper 
ately  seizing  his  arm,  Conrade  led  the  way  for  the 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  55 

rest  into  the  adjoining  hall  of  state  and  dreadful 
ceremonial. 


XXII. 

Demoniac,  indeed,  had  been  the  taste  which  fit 
ted  up  that  apartment.  Grotesque  images  stood 
glaring  around  upon  them  from  the  swaying  and 
swinging  tapestry.  Sable  shafts  and  columns, 
broken  and  cragged,  seemed  to  glide  about  the 
walls.  Gloomy  and  dark  draperies  hung  over 
the  doors  and  windows,  fringed  with  flame-like 
edges  ;  and  sprinkled  drops  of  blood,  .like  a  rain 
shower,  as  they  entered  the  hall  of  doom,  fell  upon 
their  dresses.  Rodolph  clung  to  the  arm  of  his 
friend,  even  as  an  infant  in  a  sudden  terror  clings 
to  that  of  a  mother  or  a  nurse.  He  was  almost 
lifeless  in  his  accumulating  fears  and  fancies.  But 
that  laugh  of  Conrade,  annoying  as  it  was  at  every 
other  period,  had  now  the  effect  of  reassuring  him. 
It  had  in  it  a  sort  of  scorn  of  all  these  objects  of 
dread  —  so  Rodolph  thought  —  which  re-nerved 
the  apprehensive  youth  ;  and  boldly  they  walked 
forward  together.  The  board  of  death  was  spread 
— the  board  upon  which  Oberfeldt  had  slain  him 
self.  The  outlines  of  his  bloody  form  were  printed 


56  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

upon  its  covering;  and  there,  in  an  hour  more, 
his  successor  was  doomed  to  lie.  And  who  was 
that  successor?  That  was  the  question  which 
Rodolph  propounded  momentarily  to  himself: 
"Who?  who?" 

There  was  no  long  time  for  deliberation.  Con- 
rade  led  the  way.  There  was  a  strange  cry  of 
assembled  voices  from  a  neighboring  apartment, 
seemingly  from  cells  beneath  the  stone  floor  upon 
which  they  stood.  It  was  like  laughter,  and  yet 
Rodolph  distinguished  now  and  then  a  shriek  in 
the  dreadful  chorus  which  followed  it.  Faint  notes 
of  music  —  the  sudden  clang  of  a  trumpet  —  and 
then  the  rapid  rushing  and  the  crash  of  closing 
doors,  as  if  a  sudden  tempest  raged  without  — 
these  were  the  sounds  and  images  which  accom 
panied  the  act,  in  which  the  fraternity  now  engag 
ed,  of  drawing  for  the  fatal  lot. 

Blindly,  madly,  stupidly,  and  reeling  like  a 
drunken  man,  Rodolph,  under  the  guidance  of  his 
friend's  arm,  approached  the  table,  and  the  mas 
sive  iron  vase,  from  which  the  billet  was  to  be  taken. 
Desperately  was  his  arm  thrust  forward  into  its 
fatal  jaws.  His  fingers  felt  about  its  bottom,  and 
he  drew  forth  the  card.  He  knew  not  what  he 
had  drawn  ;  he  dared  not  look  upon  it.  He  be 
lieved  his  doom  to  be  written. 

A  signal  announced  the  ceremony  to  be  over — 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  57 

the  preparatory  ceremony.  A  bright  light  played 
around  the  vase,  and  the  several  members  of  the 
college  advanced  with  the  lots  which  they  had 
drawn. 

"  Give  yourselves  no  trouble,  my  friends,"  ex 
claimed  one,  whose  voice  Rodolph  instantly  recog 
nised  to  be  that  of  Conrade.  "  You  need  not 
examine  your  billets,  since  mine  tells  me  what 
yours  must  be.  I  have  the  good  fortune  to  be 
chosen  successor  to  our  great  founder.  It  is  for 
me  to  set  you  an  example  in  following  that  of 
Oberfeldt.  The  billet  of  death  has  fallen  to  my 
lot."  And,  as  he  spoke,  he  displayed  the  fearful  and 
blood-written  scroll  loftily  in  the  sight  of  the  rest. 


XXIII. 

Rodolph  was  speechless  with  varying  emotions. 
His  own  safety  ;  the  loss  of  his  friend  ;  the  com 
posure  with  which  Conrade  announced  his  doom, 
and  prepared  himself  for  it ;  all  oppressed  him 
with  the  strangest  sensations.  Conrade  again 
spoke  : 

"  I  go  to  prepare.  In  the  adjoining  chamber, 
agreeable  to  the  directions  of  Oberfeldt,  lies  the 
knife  and  the  garment  which  are  to  prepare  me  for 


58 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 


his  doom.  There  also  are  the  candidates  who 
seek  to  fill  my  place.  From  one  of  these  it  is  for 
me  to  choose.  Fear  not,  my  friends,  that  I  shall 
choose  one  unworthy  to  associate  with  you.  My 
pride  is,  that  my  successor  shall  be  worthy  of  me." 

With  these  words  he  left  the  hall.  He  returned 
in  a  few  moments,  bringing  with  him  another,  of 
whose  face,  though  Rodolph  knew  him  not,  he  did 
not  seem  altogether  ignorant.  Conrade  was  rob 
ed  for  death ;  and  the  double-edged  knife,  with 
which  Oberfeldt  had  slain  himself,  smeared  still 
with  the  purple  blood  of  the  preceding  victim, 
was  uplifted  in  his  hand. 

"  This  is  my  successor,"  exclaimed  Conrade. 
"  He  is  named  Hans  Busacher ;  you  will  swear 
him  upon  my  body,  as  you  have  each  of  you 
sworn  upon  that  of  Oberfeldt." 

With  these  words  he  prepared  to  mount  the 
throne  of  death,  when  his  eyes  met  those  of  Ro 
dolph,  which  were  full  of  irrepressible  tears. 
He  whispered  in  the  youth's  ears  : 

"  Rodolph,  the  hour  which  takes  me  from  life, 
gives  a  double  life  to  you.  Busacher  tells  me 
that  you  are  a  father.  Hurrying  by  your  castle, 
the  intelligence  reached  him  from  a  domestic.  A 
fine  son  links  you  now  more  than  ever  to  Bertha 
and  to  life." 


CONRADE    WEIGKHOFF.  59 

Without  waiting  for  reply,  the  intrepid  Conrade 
leaped  upon  the  table.  He  gave  but  a  single  look 
and  parting  nod  to  the  assembly ;  then,  drawing 
the  keen  edge  of  the  knife  with  a  heavy  hand  over 
his  throat,  his  eyes  were  fixed,  a  second  after,  in 
the  dim  haze  and  utter  insensibility  of  death. 

Silence  was  among  the  rest,  but  a  heavy  groan 
burst  from  Rodolph,  drowned,  however,  in  a  burst 
of  shrieks  and  yells,  from  the  cells  below,  which 
were  appalling.  But  there  was  little  time  allowed 
for  speculation  upon  these  matters.  The  unini- 
tiate  now  advanced  to  the  table,  and  each  member 
crowded  round  to  repeat  the  terms  of  the  oath  to 
Hans  Busacher  which  he  was  required  to  take. 
He  did  not  shrink,  though  he  had  gazed  upon  the 
awful  event  which  had  just  taken  place.  With 
one  hand  upon  the  body  of  Conrade,  the  fingers 
of  the  other  grasped  the  pen,  and  signed  the  in 
strument;  and  Rodolph  saw,  ever  as  Busacher 
wrote,  that  the  name  of  Conrade  faded  from  the 
body  of  the  instrument  above,  while  that  of  Bu 
sacher,  letter  by  letter,  rose  visibly  in  its  place. 
The  ceremony  over,  he  rushed  from  the  horrible 
connexion,  and  was  soon  blessed  with  the  sight  of 
that  dear  pledge  of  love,  of  which  WeickhofT,  in 
the  moment  of  death,  had  informed  him. 


GO  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 


XXIV. 

The  escape  from  his  present  danger  was  a  new 
life  to  Rodolph.  In  just  proportion  to  his  former 
extreme  apprehensions,  was  his  feeling  of  security 
now.  He  did  not,  for  the  present,  trouble  himself 
with  thoughts  of  the  future.  There  was  time 
enough,  month  after  month,  in  the  long,  sweet  year 
before  him.  His  thoughts  were  all  due  to  his  wife 
and  child;  to  the  beautiful  boy,  in  whose  infant 
lineaments  Bertha  had  already  clearly  traced  out 
all  the  features  of  the  father's  face.  The  days,  the 
weeks,  flew  rapidly  by  in  the  freshness  of  so  new 
and  pure  a  pleasure.  Joy  vainly  spread  forth  his 
witcheries,  to  delay  the  feet  of  time.  Months  had 
now  elapsed,  and  a  cloud  began  to  gather  upon 
the  brow  of  Rodolph,  a  cloud  which  even  the 
caresses  of  his  wife  and  infant  failed  at  all  times 
to  disperse. 

One  day  Bertha  said  to  her  husband  —  her  child 
being  in  her  arms,  and  she  being  within  those  of 
Rodolph  — 

"  Dearest,  I  am  sad  to  see  you  so.  Wherefore 
16  it  ?  Why  are  you  gloomy  f  And  you  groan, 
Rodolph,  oh,  so  deeply  in  your  sleep,  as  if  you 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  61 

had  some  secret  and  dreadful  sorrow.  Tell  it  me, 
Rodolph.  Share  it  with  me,  dear  husband.  If 
I  cannot  soothe,  I  can  better  assist  you  to  endure 
it." 

How  freely,  how  joyfully  would  he  have  reveal 
ed  to  her,  if  he  had  dared,  the  awful  secret  that 
was  harrowing  up  his  soul.  Better  if  he  had  done 
so ;  but  he  was  not  sufficiently  assured  of  that 
mighty  strength  which  is  in  the  bosom  of  a  woman 
who  loves  devotedly,  and  he  doubted  her  ability 
to  bear  the  horrible  recital  of  what  he  knew  and 
dreaded.  She  implored  him  in  vain  ;  he  evaded 
and  denied,  until  she  grew  unhappy,  as  she  saw 
that  he  did  evade. 

At  another  time  she  said  : 

"  Dear  Rodolph,  you  do  not  pray  with  me  now, 
as  you  were  wont  to  do.  When  we  were  first 
wedded,  it  was  so  sweet  to  kneel  with  you,  and 
pray  together,  each  night  before  we  slept,  and 
confess  to  each  other  our  mutual  errors  and  un- 
kindnesses.  Now,  dear  Rodolph,  I  pray  alone. 
Wherefore  is  it,  Rodolph  ?  Ah,  husband,  shall  we 
not  again  pray  together  ?  Shall  we  not;  kneel  to 
night,  and  renew  our  former  custom  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  desperate  fondness  of 
a  dying  man  —  so  fondly,  so  earnestly,  so  despair 
ingly.  He  folded  his  arms  around  her  ;  he  press- 

VOL.  n.  6 


62  CONRADE    WEICRHOFF. 

ed  his  lips  long  and  lovingly  to  hers  ;  and  he 
promised  her  that  their  prayers  should  be  once 
more  united. 

That  evening,  when  they  had  sought  their 
chamber,  she  proceeded  to  exact  the  fulfilment  of 
his  pledge.  She  led  him  to  the  altar,  and  they 
kneeled  together,  and  tire  pure  hearted  woman 
began  to  pray  aloud.  Rodolph  was  silent,  or 
strove  vainly  to  utter  a  corresponding  prayer.  On 
a  sudden,  he  started  up  with  a  wild  shriek ;  he 
thrust  his  eyes  in  his  palms,  and  fled  from  the 
apartment ;  and  that  night  he  came  not  again  to 
the  expecting  arms  of  his  wife.  He  had  seen  the 
face  of  Conrade  Weickhoff  -peering  from  behind 
the  altar  upon  him  ;  that  horrible  grin  upon  his 
lips,  and  a  glare  from  his  eyes  that  seemed  sa- 
tanic. 


XXV. 

While  it  was  yet  early,  he  had  a  visit  the  next 
morning  from  Hans  Busacher,  who  had  recently 
become  a  neighbor,  and  was  in  possession  of  the 
domains  formerly  belonging  to  Conrade  Weick 
hoff.  Rodolph  trembled  and  shuddered  to  behold 
him,  not  only  as  his  neighborhood  reminded  him 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  63 

of  his  friend,  but  because  there  was  something  in 
the  face  of  Busacher  very  much  like  that  of  Con- 
rade.  There  was  nothing  offensive,  however, 
either  in  the  person  or  the  manners  of  the  new  vi- 
siter.  He  was  courteous  and  affable,  seemed  to 
have  always  moved  in  the  best  society,  and,  in 
every  respect,  might  have  been  considered  a  very 
model  of  gentility.  There  was,  perhaps,  some 
thing  of  loftiness  in  his  air,  which  some  may  have 
regarded  as  stiffness,  ^and  he  was  essentially  di 
vested  of  all  those  softer  feelings  which  beguile 
humanity  with  dreams.  He  was  cold  in  the  ex 
treme,  if  not  a  phlegmatic.  Rodolph  and  himself 
conversed  for  a  good  while  on  indifferent  topics, 
and  the  youth,  who,  wanting  in  decision  of  cha 
racter,  himself  needed  some  stronger  spirit  upon 
whom  to  lean,  began  to  be  pleased  with  his  visiter, 
and  was  really  grateful  to  him  for  having  called. 
When  Busacher  was  about  to  go,  Rodolph  warm 
ly  made  his  acknowledgments,  and  grasping  the 
hand  of  the  former  with  a  strong  gripe,  he  begged 
that  he  might  again  soon  see  him  at  the  castle. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  the  other,  with  composure, 
"  that  I  shall  soon  have  that  pleasure.  This  is 
Juty.  I  go  in  a  few  days  upon  a  journey  to  the 
borders,  where  I  have  to  make  some  arrangements 


64  CONRADE    "WEICKHOFF. 

in  respect  to  property.     I  shall  return  by  Novem 
ber,  when  I  shall  see  you  again,  of  course." 

The  very  language  of  Conrade  a  year  before. 
The  visiter  was  gone  ;  and,  during  the  rest  of  that 
day,  unseen  by  wife  or  domestics,  Rodolph  totter 
ed,  like  a  paralytic,  through  a  dark  gallery  of  his 
dwelling. 


XXVI.      . 

Let  us  skip  over  the  intervening  period.  No 
thing  need  be  said  in  all  this  time  of  the  increas 
ing  mental  agony  of  Rodolph.  It  will  be  suffi 
cient  to  know  that  his  despair  and  suffering  were 
even  greater  than  during  the  year  before.  Life 
had  grown  dearer  to  him ;  he  was  bound  to  it  by 
new  ties ;  and  Bertha  and  his  child  grew  lovelier 
and  more  necessary  to  his  heart,  with  every  in 
crease  of  the  doubt  and  the  dread  which  were  ga 
thering  and  groping  there. 

The  night  came,  and,  to  his  surprise,  Hans  Bu- 
sacher  was  again  his  visiter. 

"lam  but  now  returned  from  the  borders," 
were  his  first  words ;  "  and  knowing  that  your 
course  lay  with  mine  to-night,  I  concluded  to  stop 
in  passing,  and  bear  you  company." 


COXRADE    WEICKHOFF.  65 

"  What  an  alteration  in  his  voice  !"  said  Ro- 
dolph  to  himself.  "  I  have  certainly  heard  that 
voice  frequently  before." 

Thus  he  mused  as  he  looked  upon  his  visiter, 
and  he  shuddered  with  the  strangest  emotions.  He 
parted  from  Bertha,  suppressing  his  grief  as  well 
as  he  could,  but  full  of  the  most  painful  presenti 
ments. 

"  Come  back  soon,  dear  Rodolph,"  she  cried 
to  him  entreatingly,  and  he  promised  her,  but  with 
a  choking  accent. 

The  companions  soon  reached  Oberfeldt  castle, 
and,  one  by  one,  the  several  members  of  the  col 
lege  were  soon  assembled  together.  Let  us  not 
dwell  upon  the  preparatory  display  on  this  occa 
sion.  We  already  know  the  rites  and  orgies 
which  were  initial.  We  have  already  seen  the 
decorations  of  the  dismal  chamber,  and  the  dread 
ful  hall.  They  were  now  the  same.  Rodolph 
well  remembered  each  fearful  characteristic.  The 
same  scene  was  renewed  in  all  its  parts  ;  and,  amid 
crowding  forms,  and  stimulated  even  into  madness 
by  similar  objects,  sights,  and  sounds,  as  had  at 
tended  the  proceedings  of  the  previous  anniversa 
ry,  he,  with  the  rest,  advanced  to  the  iron  vase. 
They  drew  their  billets  in  turn,  and  when  Rodolph 


66  CONRADE  WEICKHOFF. 

lifted  his  into  the  light,  the  doom  of  self-murder 
was  decreed  to  him  in  characters  of  blood. 


XXVII. 

His  head  swam  —  his  heart  sickened  — he  tot 
tered  from  the  fearful  board,  and  stammering  out 
his  intention  to  the  rest,  passed  into  the  adjoining 
apartment,  where  he  was  to  choose  his  successor, 
and  prepare  for  the  execution  of  his  doom. 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  said  one,  "  he  does  not  seem 
to  like  it." 

"  No,"  said  another,  "  but  better  him  than  us. 
It  will  always  be  a  year  too  soon  when  the  time 
comes,  and  so  no  doubt  he  thinks  it." 

"  Wonder  how  he  likes  leaving  his  wife,"  said 
a  third  ;  "  they  say  he  is  very  fond  of  her." 

"  Psha !  is  she  fond  of  him  f  is  the  question. 
She  will  have  no  loss ;  she's  quite  as  lovely  as 
ever,  and  I  will  take  some  pains  myself  to  console 
her,"  said  a  fourth,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
self-complacent  of  the  group.  It  is  in  this  brutal 
fashion  that  vice  presumes  to  speak  of  the  supe 
rior  virtue  which  it  hates  and  fears.  Little  did 
the  pure  minded  Bertha  at  that  moment  imagine 
that  such  as  these  were  the  associates  of  her  hus- 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  67 

band.  Thus  had  the  conversation  proceeded  for 
some  time  in  the  hall,  when  some  one  remarked 
upon  the  long  absence  of  the  victim  : 

"  He  stays  long  !" 

"  Yes ;  his  choice  is  difficult.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
he  brings  us  a  proper  man,  a  good  fellow,  not  too 
proud  to  know  his  friends  and  neighbors." 

"  If  he  does,"  said  a  third,  "  we  should  rejoice 
in  the  exchange,  for  he  will  then  give  us  a  more 
sociable  and  better  fellow  than  himself." 

The  delay  of  Rodolph  to  return,  at  length  pro 
voked  anxiety.  He  was  sought  for,  and  was  no 
where  to  be  found.  The  successor  was  unchosen 
—  the  'fatal  garment  unassumed  —  the  knife  of 
death  unappropriated.  The  unhappy  youth  dared 
not  fulfil  his  pledges.  Life  was  too  sweet  — 
death  too  terrible  —  and  scarcely  enjoying  the 
one,  or  only  destined  to  enjoy  it  in  horrors,  he  had 
yet  fled  from  the  utterly  bereaving  embraces  of 
the  other.  He  had  availed  himself  of  the  few 
moments  which  were  allotted  to  the  victim  for 
solitary  preparation,  to  hurry  through  a  neighbor 
ing  passage,  and  regain  the  court-yard.  There, 
mounting  his  steed,  he  had  fled  with  all  despera 
tion,  and  a  full  half  hour  had  elapsed  after  his 
departure  before  his  flight  was  discovered. 


68 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 


XXVIII. 

There  was  a  general  hubbub  among  the  col- 
legiates  when  the  discovery  was  made.  All  was 
confusion  and  uproar. 

*'  The  coward  !"  several  of  them  exclaimed, 
"  thus  to  fly  from  death." 

"Dishonorable!"  cried  others,  "not  to  meet  his 
engagements."  Some  proposed  to  pursue  and 
put  him  to  death ;  and  this  opinion  was  about  to 
be  carried,  when  Hans  Busacher,  who  had,  in  all 
this  time,  preserved  the  profoundest  silence,  now 
interposed  as  follows : 

"  We  may  not  do  as  you  propose,  my  friends  ; 
we  are  bound  by  our  contract  to  a  different  course. 
What  says  the  will  of  Oberfeldt  on  this  subject  ? 
and  how,  under  his  directions,  are  we  to  punish  a 
member  who  flies  from  his  honorable  pledge  ? 
We  are  not  to  harm  a  hair  of  his  head  ;  we  are 
not  to  shed  a  drop  of  his  blood  ;  we  are  not  to 
break  a  limb  of  his  body  ;  we  are  not  to  abridge 
a  portion  of  his  breath  ;  but  we  are  to  do  all  — 
we  are  to  compel  him  to  the  performance  of  the 
deed  by  a  will  and  act  of  his  own." 

"  How  can  that  be  done?"  was  the  general 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  69 

exclamation.  They  were  astounded,  for  none  of 
them  remembered  any  such  requisitions  in  the 
document. 

"  Does  the  will  say  so  ?"  was  the  inquiry  of  one 
and  all. 

"  You  shall  see  for  yourselves,"  was  the  reply. 
They  read,  and,  sure  enough,  there  were  plainly 
written  down  the  fatal  requisitions.  They  were 
aghast,  and  Hans  Busacher  smiled  scornfully  as 
he  beheld  their  confusion.  After  a  brief  pause, 
he  proceeded : 

"  Our  task  is  not  so  difficult  as  you  imagine. 
Why  does  Rodolph  Steinmyer  fly  from  death  ? 
Because  he  is  in  love  with  life  !  Why  is  he  in 
love  with  life  ?  Because  there  are  many  things 
in  life  which  make  it  worthy  of  his  love.  What 
do  we,  then,  my  friends'?  Evidently,  we  are  to 
deprive  him  of  all  those  objects  which  make  him 
regardless  of  his  honor.  Our  work  begins  from 
this  moment.  Come  all  of  you  with  me  into  the 
private  room  of  council.  There  let  us  confer  to 
gether,  on  the  best  plan  for  bringing  our  brother 
back  to  the  consideration  of  his  duty." 

What  they  did,  to  what  they  pledged  them 
selves,  and  what  they  designed  in  that  secret  con 
ference,  may  not  be  said.  They  separated  after 
a  brief  interval  ;  and  the  shade  of  Oberfeldt 


70  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

growled  at  the  passage  of  the  anniversary  without 
yielding  him  any  additional  companion. 

•  i  v  '•' 
XXIX. 

Let  us  follow  the  flight  of  the  devoted  Rodolph. 
The  poor  youth  fled  madly  to  his  home.  In  des 
peration,  upon  the  bosom  of  his  wife  he  poured 
forth  the  whole  dreadful  narrative.  A  silent  hor 
ror  seized  upon  her.  She  was  dumb ;  she  was 
stupified  with  dread.  She  knew  of  but  one  re 
source,  and  she  called  upon  God  !  She  implored 
her  husband  to  kneel  with  her  before  the  same 
altar,  and  he  did  so ;  but  when,  like  her,  he  strove 
to  call  upon  God,  a  wild  yell  arose  from  the  floor 
beneath  him  —  a  yell  of  fiendish  derision  —  that 
drowned  all  supplication.  At  the  same  moment, 
a  fierce  implacable  glare  shot  out  from  two  eyes 
behind  the  altar,  that  seemed  like  dim  and  baleful 
stars,  looking  forth  amidst  the  gloomy  and  sudden 
gusts  of  September.  liodolph  sank  fainting  upon 
the  floor,  and  Bertha,  prostrating  herself  upon  his 
body,  prayed  fervently  to  heaven  for  the  succor 
and  the  safety  of  the  doomed  one  | 

The  night  passed  —  a  night  of  horror.  The 
day  came  and  passed-^  a  day  of  increasing  hor- 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  71 

ror,  as  it  was  one  which  contributed  in  a  thousand 
ways  to  the  hopelessness  of  Rodolph. 

"  Let  us  fly,"  said  the  devoted  wife  ;  "  let  us 
fly,  my  Rodolph,  into  other  countries.  We  shall 
then  be  beyond  the  reach  of  these  people.  You 
can  then  be  at  peace,  and  happy." 

He  embraced  her,  and  they  determined  upon 
flight.  In  secrecy  he  prepared  money  and  jewels 
for  use  in  a  foreign  land.  His  horses  were  in 
readiness,  a  faithful  retainer  intrusted  with  the 
secret  only,  and  every  arrangement  was  made 
for  a  start  at  midnight.  It  came,  and  stealing 
forth  with  his  infant  son  in  his  arms,  and  his  wife 
clinging  to  his  side,  Rodolph,  when  all  were 
asleep,  descended  to  the  porch  where  the  carriage 
was  in  waiting.  They  entered  the  vehicle,  and 
departed ;  but  as  they  drove  through  the  portals, 
they  heard  voices  calling  them  back,  and  then  a 
chuckling  laugh,  which  seemed  like  that  of  Con- 
rade.  They  reached  a  deep  wood,  when  suddenly 
the  sky  became  overcast,  and  they  could  no  longer 
find  their  way.  A  storm  of  lightning  came  up, 
and  the  horses  grew  frightened.  Strange  cries, 
as  of  men  in  battle,  reached  their  ears  from  the 
distance,  and  as  they  drove  forward  desperately, 
the  horses  sank  back  in  terror  from  some  object 
which  lay  in  their  way.  Provocations  like  these 


72  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

had  aroused  all  the  courage  of  Rodolph.  He 
alighted  from  the  carriage,  and  approached  the 
object  which  had  so  alarmed  the  horses.  The 
distinct  outline  of  a  man's  body,  which  seemed 
lifeless,  lay  in  the  path.  A  groan  reached  his 
ears.  He  stooped  to  the  body,  to  feel  if  life  were 
yet  in  its  bosom.  The  figure  stretched  up  its 
arms,  as  if  to  embrace  him.  At  that  moment,  a 
sharp  flash  of  lightning  showed  him  the  face  of 
Conrade  Weickhoff,  the  head  nearly  severed  from 
the  body.  He  dashed  down  the  bloody  carcass  ; 
leaped  again  into  the  vehicle  ;  while  shrieks  of 
demoniac  laughter  seemed  to  run  and  gather  in 
the  air,  pursuing  all  around  him.  With  his  own 
hands,  nerved  by  desperation,  he  drove  the  career 
ing  horses  over  the  carcass,  and  heedless  of  the 
road,  made  his  way  forward. 

"  Whither  so  fast?"  cried  a  strange  voice,  in 
front  of  him.  "  Would  you  cross  the  river  in 
such  a  freshet,  when  the  bridge  is  swept  away  ? 
Turn,  instantly,  or  you  must  perish." 

It  was  a  sort  of  instinct  that  prompted  the  next 
movement  of  Rodolph.  The  horses  were  wheeled 
round,  and,  driving  without  an  aim,  he  drove  till 
daylight.  At  dawn,  the  extensive  and  beautiful 
domains  of  a  fine  castle  lay  before  him. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  he  demanded  of  a  peasant. 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  73 

"At  the  castle  of  Baron  Rodolph  ofSteinmyer," 
was  the  reply. 

Rodolph  was  again  at  home. 


XXX. 

There  was  a  destiny  in  all  this.  Rodoiph  be 
gan  to  perceive  how  desperate  was  the  contest 
before  him.  He  devoted  himself  to  meditation 
upon  the  means  of  his  escape,  and  for  hours  he 
was  absorbed  in  thought,  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
outward  consciousness.  At  length  he  called  to 
him  a  faithful  adherent : 

"  Glaus,"  he  said,  "  you  will  take  the  lady 
Bertha  and  her  child  to  Staremberg  castle.  You 
will  begone  instantly,  and  put  yourself  in  readi 
ness." 

He  then  sought  Bertha,  and  told  her  his  inten 
tion. 

"  Once  secure  at  Staremberg,  Bertha,  and  you 
will  not  encumber  my  flight.  You  can  follow  me 
when  you  hear  of  my  safety  in  another  land. 
Take  with  you  these  jewels  and  this  gold.  They 
will  serve  us  at  a  future  time,  and  bid  defiance  to 
want." 

He  opened  the  caskets  as  he  spoke,  but,  instead 

VOL.    II.  7 


74  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

of  gold  and  jewels,  there  lay  nothing  within  but  a 
few  rocks  in  an  envelop.  That  envelop  was  a 
bloody  napkin,  marked  "  Oberfeldt,"  and  having 
on  it  a  purple  stain,  which  gave  the  idea  of  a 
rudely  impressed  hand  and  dagger.  The  sight 
almost  blinded  the  horror-stricken  youth.  The 
doom  was  gathering  around  him. 

At  length  Bertha  and  the  child,  under  the 
guardianship  of  Glaus,  set  forward  upon  the  jour 
ney  to  her  father's  castle  of  Staremberg.  Rodolph 
separated  from  her  at  the  gate  with  many  tears. 
When  they  were  gone,  he  mounted  his  steed,  and 
rode  away  gloomily  into  the  forest.  It  was  late 
in  the  day  when  he  determined  to  return.  He 
had  meditated  his  plan  thoroughly,  and  had,  at 
length,  devised  a  scheme  which,  he  flattered  him 
self,  would  enable  him  successfully  to  fly  from  his 
persecutors.  When  he  reached  the  edges  of  the 
forest  a  bright  blaze  illuminated  it,  with  a  light 
beyond  that  of  day.  He  was  bewildered  by  the 
conflagration,  and  hurried  forward.  When  he 
had  fully  emerged  from  the  obscurity  of  the  woods, 
he  knew  the  extent  of  the  evil.  His  fine  palace 
was  in  flames.  He  reached  the  gates,  and  found 
all  his  retainers  in  consternation.  The  fire  was  a 
mystery  ;  nobody  could  account  for  it.  While 
he  gazed  upon  the  blazing  ruins,  he  saw  amid  the 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  75 

burning  masses,  two  bright  eyes  glaring  upon  his 
own.  If  he  had  not  been  well  acquainted  with 
the  hateful  glare  of  those  eyes,  he  was  yet  not 
ignorant  of  the  source  of  that  fiendish  laugh, 
which  rose  high  above  the  rock  when  the  tottering 
walls  went  down  in  a  final  crash.  How  much 
less  difficult  did  it  now  seem  to  Rodolph  to  die  ! 
Suffering  had  already  began  to  blunt  sensibility. 


XXXI. 

Like  an  abandoned  wretch,  he  rode  over  to 
Staremberg  castle.  He  could  not  depart  without 
seeing  Bertha  and  his  child.  Their  absence  had 
already  half  reconciled  him  to  the  worst.  But 
where  were  they  ?  Neither  baron  nor  baroness  had 
yet  seen  their  daughter  and  grandson. 

"  Trifle  not  with  me,  I  pray  you,"  cried  Ro 
dolph,  In  his  agony.  "  Bring  me  to  them.  I 
am  in  no  mood  for  sport ;  I  cannot  brook  delay." 

When  assured  that  they  had  not  yet  made  their 
appearance,  with  a  mad  yell  he  rushed  away  into 
the  forest.  The  retainers  of  Staremberg  followed 
in  pursuit ;  and  the  old  baron  himself,  who  tender 
ly  loved  his  daughter,  did  not  withhold  himself 
from  the  search  which  was  instituted  for  her.  It 


76  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

was  the  fortune  of  the  unhappy  Rodolph  to  gain 
the  first  tidings  of  his  beloved.  Midway  between 
his  own  and  Staremberg  castle,  the  carriage  lay 
overturned,  and  almost  torn  to  pieces.  The  horses 
were  stiff  dead,  and  yet  there  were  no  marks  or 
wounds  upon  them.  They  seemed  literally  to  have 
been  blasted.  The  dead  body  of  a  man  lay 
stretched  out  before  a  portion  of  the  vehicle, 
wearing  a  dress  like  that  of  Glaus,  to  whose  cus 
tody  Bertha  had  been  intrusted  ;  but  what  was 
the  horror  of  Rodolph,  on  approaching  the  body, 
to  discover  the  features  of  his  ancient  comrade, 
Conrade  Weickhoff,  once  again  visibly  before  him. 
And  the  horrible  image  unclosed  its  eyes,  and 
glared  upon  him,  as  with  a  lustful  longing,  from 
beneath  the  sickly  glaze  which  still  overspread  the 
rapidly  decaying  orbs. 

The  fear  of  death  was  no  longer  a  fear  with 
Rodolph  Steinmyer.  The  goods  of  life  were 
gOne  —  the  things  which  he  had  lived  for,  and 
which  had  made  life  a  province  of  delight  super 
seding  the  desire  in  his  mind  for  any  other,  were 
all  gone.  The  W7ife  and  the  child  were  torn  from 
him  for  ever  —  murdered,  doubtlessly,  by  the 
demon  fingers  of  his  foul  associates,  or  the  demon 
agents  of  that  awful  being  with  whom,  it  was  now 
the  fear  of  Rodolph,  he  had  been  commercing 


CONRADE   WEICKHOFF.  77 

but  too  freely.  As  he  thought  on  these  matters, 
however,  he  congratulated  himself  that,  though 
bargaining  with  the  demon,  he  had  sold  him  no 
thing  but  his  life  —  he  had  not  traded  away  his 
soul !  Rodolph  was  not  so  subtle  a  casuist  as  the 
devil !  A  yell  of  derisive  laughter  rose  in  the  air 
around  him,  the  moment  that  his  lips  gave  utter 
ance  to  the  absurdity ;  and  he  distinctly  beheld  the 
long,  bony,  and  skinless  fingers  of  Conrade  Weick- 
hoflf  stretching  up  toward  him  from  the  carcass. 

He  rushed  away  from  the  dreadful  place  and 
spectacle.  Madness  seemed  to  prompt  his  course, 
and  desperation  gave  him  wings.  But  there  was 
method  in  his  madness.  His  mind  had  reached 
that  stage  of  frenzy  in  which  nothing  can  touch 
it  farther.  He  was  now  insensible  to  hope  and 
fear,  as  he  was  indifferent  to  life.  One  met  him 
in  his  flight,  whom  he  saw  not,  but  the  voice  of 
Hans  Busacher  he  knew. 

"  We  go  together,"  said  Hans. 

"  We  do  !"  was  the  reply. 

*'  You  are  waited  for  !"  said  the  former. 

11  Who  waits  ?"  demanded  Rodolph,  fiercely. 

A  finger  rested  upon  his  wrist,  and  the  touch 
seemed  to  enfeeble  him,  while  the  other  briefly  re 
plied  — 

«  Oberfeldt !  —  Weickhoff !  —  Bertha  1" 


78  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

"Ha!  I  am  ready!"  was  the  desperate,  but 
shuddering  response ;  and  they  entered  together 
the  gates  of  Oberfeldt  castle,  which  immediately 
closed  heavily  behind  them.  There  was  now  no 
escape  for  Rodolph,  but  he  thought  not  of  that* 


XXXII. 

Shouts  received  the  fugitive  —  shouts  of  laugh 
ter,  of  scorn,  of  encouragement  and  cheer,  rang 
in  his  senses.  The  members  of  the  college  were 
all  assembled,  as  if  they  had  been  waiting  for, 
and  apprized  of  his  coming.  He  looked  round 
the  apartment,  and  noted  their  several  faces.  His 
emotions  were  not  such  as  they  were  when  he  had 
previously  met  his  colleagues.  He  had  now  no 
fears.  His  limbs  were  firm  —  his  muscles  rigid 
and  inflexible  —  his  nerves  unshaken.  Yet  the 
pomp  of  death  around  him  was  even  more  gloom 
ily  grand  than  ever.  The  tapestry,  that  seemed 
made  up  of  gathering  shadows,  of  mighty  spec 
tres,  and  the  awfulest  forms,  appeared  to  contract 
momently  around  him.  Huge  torches,  borne  in 
the  hands  of  mute  images,  waved  with  a  flaring 
and  smoky  light,  in  dense  niches  of  the  apartment* 
Faint  tones  of  musicj  followed  by  an  occasional 


CONRADE    WEICKHOFF.  79 

shriek  of  laughter,  and  sometimes  by  one  of  pain, 
came  to  his  senses ;  and  more  than  once,  as  if 
nearer  at  hand,  the  plainings  of  a  child  seemed  to 
assail  him,  as  if  from  his  own  murdered  innocent. 
This  fancy  at  once  drove  him  forward  to  his  pur 
pose. 

"I  am  ready,"  he  exclaimed  to  the  confederates. 

"  Not  so,"  said  Busacher;  "  you  are  to  choose 
your  successor.  The  candidates  await  you." 

"  Must  I  do  this  ?"  demanded  Rodolph,  shrink 
ing  from  the  task  of  entailing  his  own  dreadful 
doom  upon  another. 

"You  must!"  was  the  reply;  and  Busacher 
led  the  victim  to  the  chamber  in  which  his  prepa 
rations  were  to  be  made.  Many  were  the  candi 
dates  who  were  there,  claiming  the  privileges  of 
eternal  sorrow,  in  connexion  with  a  momentary 
indulgence.  With  eyes  closed,  Rodolph  extended 
his  hands,  determined  to  leave  to  fate  that  choice 
which  he  was  bent  not  to  make  himself.  The  per 
son  he  touched  came  forward,  and  Rodolph,  when 
he  looked  upon  him,  beh*eld  a  fair  youth,  even 
younger  than  himself^  in  the  man  he  had  selected. 
He  would  have  amended  his  choice.  He  would  have 
taken  one  of  the  degraded  and  besotted  candidates 
whom  a  long  familiarity  with  vice  in  all  its  forms  had 


80  CmTRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

made  callous  to  all  conditions,  and  utterly  hopeless 
of  the  future.  But  he  was  not  allowed  to  do  so, 
nor  would  the  infatuated  youth,  so  chosen,  himself 
permit  of  any  change.  Bitterly,  but  too  late,  did 
Rodolph  deplore  his  error  ;  but  regrets  were  idle 
at  such  a  moment.  He  robed  himself  in  the  un 
hallowed  investiture  of  self-murder.  He  clutched 
the  bloody  knife  in  his  desperate  hand.  He  led 
his  youthful  successor  into  the  hall  of  death.  He 
stood  with  him  before  its  altar.  A  dreadful  strug 
gle  was  going  on  within  his  bosom ;  for  the  good 
angel  of  a  guardian  conscience  had  not  yet  entire 
ly  given  up  its  trust.  But,  when  he  beheld  the 
doubting  and  the  sneering  glances  of  those  around 
him,  and  when  he  thought  of  the  wife  and  child 
whom  he  had  lost,  he  hesitated  no  longer.  Fear 
lessly  he  leaped  upon  the  bloody  board,  and  the 
knife  was  uplifted.  As  he  gave  the  fatal  blow,  a 
shriek,  a  scream — the  voice  of  a  woman  in  a 
deep  agony  —  reached  his  ears,  with  the  rushing 
of  feet  from  an  adjoining  chamber.  He  knew  the 
tones  of  that  voice.  They  were  those  of  Bertha. 
Half  conscious  only,  he  strove  to  raise  himself 
from  the  bloody  bier,  and  his  eyes  were  turned  in 
the  direction  whence  the  sounds  proceeded.  The 
tapestry  was  thrown  aside,  and  his  wife  —  her  child 


CONKADE    WEICKHOFF.  81 

in  her  arms  —  her  hair  flying  in  the  wind  —  her 
movements  those  of  a  love  bordering  upon  mad 
ness  —  rushed  toward  him  where  he  lay.  He 
strove,  in  the  agony  of  death  —  for  the  last  sick 
ness  was  fast  overcoming  the  life-tide  at  his  heart 
—  to  extend  his  arms  to  receive  her ;  but,  at  that 
moment,  the  form  of  Hans  Busacher  passed  be 
tween  them. 

"  Keep  me  not  back,"  cried  the  wretched  wo 
man,  "  he  is  mine  —  he  is  my  husband." 

"  He  is  mine!"  cried  Busacher,  in  a  voice  like 
the  falling  of  a  torrent  —  so  deep,  so  startling  — 
so  sudden  at  the  first.  The  dim  eye  of  Rodolph 
gazed  up  at  the  intruder,  and  the  form  of  Bu 
sacher  seemed  changed  to  that  of  Conrade  Weick- 
hoff.  There  was  the  same  scornful  smile  upon 
his  lips,  and  the  ears  of  the  dying  man  were  con 
scious  of  the  same  horrible,  chuckling  laugh, 
which  had  characterized  his  friend.  While  he  yet 
looked  in  amaze,  the  figure  seemed  to  grow  and 
to  expand,  and  he  was  now  aware  that  the  dreadful 
personage  before  him  was  about  to  assume  another 
aspect.  While  he  watched  with  the  last  lingering 
consciousness  of  life,  and  while  the  breath  flicker 
ed  faintly,  and  was  drawn  unresistingly  toward 
the  fearful  presence  which  he  watched,  he  beheld 
the  features  change  from  those  of  Conrade,  into  a 


82  CONRADE    WEICKHOFF. 

yet  more  dreadful  character.  Then  did  he  feel, 
for  the  first  time,  how  completely  he  was  the  vic 
tim  ;  since,  in  place  of  him  who  had  been  his 
friend,  he  saw,  in  the  moment  of  his  final  agony, 
the  triumphant  and  stony  glare  which  marks  the 
glance  of  the  demon  Mephistopheles,  whose  slave 
he  had  become. 


LOGOOCHIE 


OR, 


THE   BRANCH    OF   SWEET   WATER, 


A    LEGEND    OF    GEORGIA. 


LOGOOCHIE. 


I. 


WITH  the  approach  of  the  white  settlers,  along 
the  wild  but  pleasant  banks  of  the  St.  Mary's 
river,  in  the  state  of  Georgia,  the  startled  deities 
of  Indian  mythology  began  to  meditate  their 
departure  to  forests  more  secure.  Tribe  after 
tribe  of  the  aborigines  had  already  gone,  and  the 
uncouth  gods  of  their  idolatry  presided,  in  num 
berless  instances,  only  over  their  deserted  habita 
tions.  The  savages  had  carried  with  them  no 
guardian  divinities  —  no  hallowed  household  altars 
—  cheering  them  in  their  new  places  of  abode,  by 
the  acceptance  of  their  sacrifice,  and  with  the 
promise  of  a  moderate  winter,  or  a  successful 
hunt.  In  depriving  them  of  the  lands  descended 
to  them  in  trust  from  their  fathers,  the  whites  seem 
also  to  have  exiled  them  from  the  sweet  and  mys- 

VOL.    II.  8 


86  LOGOOCHIE. 

tic  influences,  so  aptly  associated  with  the  vague 
loveliness  of  forest  life,  of  their  many  twilight 
superstitions.  Their  new  groves,  as  yet,  had  no 
spells  for  the  huntsman ;  and  the  Manneyto  of 
their  ancient  sires,  failed  to  appreciate  their  tribute 
offerings,  intended  to  propitiate  his  regards,  or  to 
disarm  his  anger.  They  were  indeed  outcasts; 
and,  with  a  due  feeling  for  their  exiled  worship 
pers,  the  forest-gods  themselves  determined  also 
to  depart  from  those  long-hallowed  sheltering 
places  in  the  thick  swamps  of  the  Okephanokee, 
whence,  from  immemorial  time,  they  had  gone 
forth,  to  cheer  or  to  chide  the  tawny  hunter  in 
his  progress  through  life.  They  had  served  the 
fathers  faithfully,  nor  were  they  satisfied  that  the 
sons  should  go  forth  unattended.  They  had  con 
secrated  his  dwellings,  they  had  stimulated  his 
courage,  they  had  thrown  the  pleasant  waters 
along  his  path,  when  his  legs  failed  him  in  the 
chase,  and  his  lips  were  parched  with  the  wander 
ings  of  the  long  day  in  summer;  and  though 
themselves  overcome  in  the  advent  of  superior 
gods,  they  had,  nevertheless,  prompted  him  to  the 
last,  in  the  protracted  struggle^  which  he  had 
maintained,  for  so  many  years,  and  with  such 
various  successes,  against  his  pale  invaders.  All 
that  could  be  done  for  the  feather-crowned  and 


LOGOOCHIE.  87 

wolf-mantled  warrior,  had  been  done,  by  the  di 
vinities  he  worshipped.  He  was  overcome,  driven 
away  from  his  ancient  haunts,  but  he  still  bowed 
in  spirit  to  the  altars,  holy  still  to  him,  though, 
haplessly,  without  adequate  power  to  secure  him 
in  his  possessions.  They  determined  not  to  leave 
him  unprotected  in  his  new  abodes,  and  gathering1, 
at  the  bidding  of  Satilla,  the  Mercury  of  the 
southern  Indians,  the  thousand  gods  of  their 
worship  —  the  wood-gods  and  the  water-gods  — 
crowded  to  the  flower-island  of  Okephanokee,  to 
hear  the  commands  of  the  Great  Manneyto. 


II. 


All  came  but  Logoochie,  and  where  was  he  ? 
he,  the  Indian  mischief-maker  —  the  Puck,  the 
tricksiest  spirit  of  them  all,  —  he,  whose  mind, 
like  his  body,  a  creature  of  distortion,  was  yet 
gentle  in  its  wildness,  and  never  suffered  the 
smallest  malice  to  mingle  in  with  its  mischief. 
The  assembly  was  dull  without  him  —  the  season 
cheerless  —  the  feast  wanting  in  provocative. 
The  Great  Manneyto  him*df,  with  whom  Logoo 
chie  was  a  favourite,  looked  impatiently  on  the 
approach  of  every  new  comer.  In  vain  were  all 


88  LOGOOCHIE. 

his  inquiries  —  where  is  Logoochie  ?  who  has 
seien  Logoochie  ?  The  question  remained  unan 
swered  —  the  Great  Manneyto  unsatisfied.  Anx 
ious  search  was  instituted  in  every  direction  for 
the  discovery  of  the  truant.  They  could  hear 
nothing  of  him,  and  all  scrutiny  proved  fruitless. 
They  knew  his  vagrant  spirit,  and  felt  confident 
he  was  gone  upon  some  mission  of  mischief;  but 
they  also  knew  how  far  beyond  any  capacity  of 
theirs  to  detect,  was  his  to  conceal  himself,  and  so, 
after  the  first  attempt  at  search,  the  labor  was 
given  up  in  despair.  They  could  get  no  tidings 
of  Logoochie. 


III. 


The  conference  went  on  without  him,  much  to 
the  dissatisfaction  of  all  parties.  He  was  the 
spice  of  the  entertainment,  the  spirit  of  all  frolic  ; 
and  though  sometimes  exceedingly  annoying, 
even  to  the  Great  Manneyto,  and  never  less  so 
to  the  rival  power  of  evil,  the  Opitchi-Manneyto, 
yet,  as  the  recognized  joker  on  all  hands,  no  one 
found  it  wise  to  take  offence  at  his  tricks.  In 
council,  he  relieved  the  dull  discourse  of  some 
drowsy  god,  by  the  sly  sarcasm,  which,  falling 


LOGOOCHIE. 


89 


innocuously  upon  the  ears  of  the  victim,  was  yet 
readily  comprehended,  and  applied  by  all  the  rest. 
On  the  journey,  he  kept  all  around  him  from  any 
sense  of  weariness,  —  and,  by  the  perpetual  prac 
tical  application  of  his  humor,  always  furnished 
his  companions,  whether  above  or  inferior  to  him 
in  dignity,  with  something  prime,  upon  which  to 
make  merry.  In  short,  there  was  no  god  like 
Logoochie,  and  he  was  as  much  beloved  by  the 
deities,  as  he  was  honored  by  the  Indian,  who 
implored  him  not  to  turn  aside  the  arrow  which 
he  sent  after  the  bounding  buck,  nor  to  spill  the 
water  out  of  his  scooped  leaf  as  he  carried  it  from 
the  running  rivulet  up  to  his  mouth.  All  these 
were  tricks  of  the  playful  Logoochie,  and  by  a 
thousand,  such  as  these,  was  he  known  to  the 
Indians. 


IV. 

Where,  then,  was  the  absentee  when  his  brother 
divinities  started  after  the  outlawed  tribes  ?  Had 
he  not  loved  the  Indians  —  had  he  no  sympathy 
with  his  associate  gods  —  and  wherefore  went  he 
not  upon  the  sad  journey  through  the  many 
swamps  and  the  long  stretches  of  sand  and  forest, 
that  lay  between  the  Okephanokee,  and  the  ra- 
8* 


90  LOGOOCHIM. 

pidly-gushing  waters  of  the  Chatahoochie,  wher 
both  the  aborigines  and  their  rude  deities  had 
now  taken  up  their  abodes.  Alas  !  for  Logoo- 
chie  !  He  loved  the  wild  people,  it  is  true,  and 
much  he  delighted  in  the  association  of  those 
having  kindred  offices  with  himself ;  but  though 
a  mimic  and  a  jester,  fond  of  sportive  tricks,  and 
perpetually  practising  them  on  all  around  him,  he 
was  not  unlike  the  memorable  buffoon  of  Paris, 
who,  while  ministering  to  the  amusement  of  thou 
sands,  possessing  them  with  an  infinity  of  fun  and 
frolic,  was  yet,  at  the  very  time,  craving  a  pre 
cious  mineral  from  the  man  of  science  to  cure  him 
of  his  confirmed  hypochondria.  Such  was  the 
condition  of  Logoochie.  The  idea  of  leaving  the 
old  woods  and  the  waters  to  which  he  had  been 
so  long  accustomed,  and  which  were  associated  in 
his  memory  with  a  thousand  instances  of  merri 
ment,  was  too  much  for  his  most  elastic  spirits  to 
sustain ;  and  the  summons  to  depart  filled  him 
with  a  nameless,  and,  to  him,  a  hitherto  unknown 
form  of  terror.  His  organ  of  inhabitiveness  had 
undergone  prodigious  increase  in  the  many  ex 
ercises  which  his  mind  and  mood  had  practised 
upon  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  Branch  of  Sweet 
Water,  where  his  favorite  home  had  been  chosen 
by  a  felicitous  fancy.  It  was  indeed  a  spot  to  be 


LOGOOCHJE. 


91 


loved  and  dwelt  upon,  and  he  who  surveyed  its 
clear  and  quiet  waters,  sweeping  pleasantly  on 
ward  with  a  gentle  murmur,  under  the  high  and 
bending  pine  trees  that  arched  over  and  fenced  it 
in,  would  have  no  wonder  at  its  effect  upon  a 
spirit  so  susceptible,  amidst  all  his  frolic,  as  that 
of  Logoochie.  The  order  to  depart  made  him 
miserable  ;  he  could  not  think  of  doing  so ;  and, 
trembling  all  the  while,  he  yet  made  the  solemn 
determination  not  to  obey  the  command ;  but 
rather  to  subject  himself,  by  his  refusal,  to  a  loss 
of  caste,  and,  perhaps,  even  severer  punishment, 
should  he  be  taken,  from  the  other  powers  having 
guardianship  with  himself,  over  the  wandering 
red  men.  With  the  determination  came  the  exe 
cution  of  his  will.  He  secreted  himself  from 
those  who  sought  him,  and  in  the  hollow  of  a  log 
lay  secure,  even  while  the  hunters  uttered  their 
conjectures  and  surmises  under  the  very  copse  in 
which  he  was  hidden.  His  arts  to  escape  were 
manifold,  and,  unless  the  parties  in  search  of  him 
knew  intimately  his  practices,  he  could  easily  elude 
their  scrutiny  by  the  simplest  contrivances.  Such, 
too,  was  the  susceptibility  of  his  figure  for  distor 
tion,  that  even  Satilla,  the  three  eyed,  the  mes 
senger  of  the  Indian  divinities,  the  most  acute  and 
cunning  among  them,  was  not  unfrequently  over- 


92  LOGOOCHIE, 

reached  and  evaded  by  the  truant  Logoochie. 
He  too  had  searched  for  him  in  vain,  and  though 
having  a  shrewd  suspicion,  as  he  stepped  over  a 
pine  knot  lying  across  a  path,  just  about  dusk, 
that  it  was  something  more  than  it  seemed  to  be, 
yet  passing  on  without  examining  it,  and  leaving 
the  breathless  Logoochie,  for  it  was  he,  to  gather 
himself  up,  the  moment  his  pursuer  was  out  of 
sight,  and  take  himself  off  in  a  more  secluded 
direction.  The  back  of  Logoochie  was,  itself, 
little  better  than  a  stripe  of  the  tree  bark  to  those 
who  remarked  it  casually.  From  his  heel  to  his 
head,  inclusive,  it  looked  like  so  many  articulated 
folds  or  scales  of  the  pine  tree,  here  and  there 
bulging  out  into  excrescences.  The  back  of  his 
head  was  a  solid  knot,  for  all  the  world  like  that 
of  the  scorched  pine  knot,  hard  and  resinous. 
This  knot  ran  across  in  front,  so  as  to  arch  above 
and  overhang  his  forehead,  and  was  crowned 
with  hair,  that,  though  soft,  was  thick  and  woody 
to  the  eye,  and  looked  not  unlike  the  plates  of  the 
pine-bur  when  green  in  season.  It  rose  into  a 
ridge  or  comb  directly  across  the  head  from  front 
to  rear,  like  the  war  tuft  of  a  Seminole  warrior. 
His  eyes,  small  and  red,  seemed,  occasionally,  to 
run  into  one  another,  and  twinkled  so,  that  you 
could  not  avoid  laughing  but  to  look  upon  them* 


LOGOOCHIE.  93 

His  nose  was  flat,  and  the  mouth  was  simply  an 
incision  across  his  face,  reaching  nigh  to  both  his 
ears,  which  lapped  and  hung  over  like  those  of  a 
hound.  He  was  short  in  person,  thick,  and 
strangely  bow-legged  ;  and,  to  complete  the  un 
couth  figure,  his  arms,  shooting  out  from  under  a 
high  knot,  that  gathered  like  an  epaulette  upon 
each  shoulder,  possessed  but  a  single  though  rather 
long  bone,  and  terminated  in  a  thick,  squab,  bur- 
like  hand,  having  fingers,  themselves  inflexible, 
and  but  of  single  joints,  and  tipped,  not  with 
nails,  but  with  claws,  somewhat  like  those  of  the 
panther,  and  equally  fearful  in  strife.  Such  was 
the  vague  general  outline  which,  now  and  then, 
the  Indian  hunter,  and,  after  him,  the  Georgia 
squatter,  caught,  towards  evening,  of  the  wander 
ing  Logoochie,  as  he  stole  suddenly  from  sight 
into  the  sheltering  copse,  that  ran  along  the  edges 
of  some  wide  savannah. 

The  brother  divinities  of  the  Creek  warriors 
had  gone  after  their  tribes,  and  Logoochie  alone 
remained  upon  the  banks  of  the  Sweet  Water 
Branch.  He  remained  in  spite  of  many  reasons 
for  departure.  The  white  borderer  came  nigher 
and  nigher,  with  every  succeeding  day.  The 
stout  log-house  started  up  in  the  centre  of  his 
favorite  groves,  and  many  families,  clustering 


94  LOGOOCHIE. 

within  a  few  miles  of  his  favorite  stream,  formed 
the  nucleus  of  the  flourishing  little  town  of  St. 
Mary's.  Still  he  lingered,  though  with  a  sadness 
of  spirit,  hourly  increasing,  as  every  hour  tended 
more  and  more  to  circumscribe  the  haunts  of  his 
playful  wandering.  Every  day  called  upon  him 
to  deplore  the  overthrow,  by  the  woodman's  axe, 
of  some  well  remembered  tree  in  his  neighbor 
hood  ;  and  though  he  strove,  by  an  industrious 
repetition  of  his  old  tricks,  to  prevent  much  of  this 
desolation,  yet  the  divinities  which  the  white  man 
brought  with  him  were  too  potent  for  Logoochie. 
In  vain  did  he  gnaw  by  night  the  sharp  edge  of 
the  biting  steel,  with  which  the  squatter  wrought 
so  much  desolation.  Alas  !  the  white  man  had 
an  art  given  him  by  his  God,  by  which* he 
smoothed  out  its  repeated  gaps,  and  sharpened  it 
readily  again,  or  found  a  new  one,  for  the  destruc 
tion  of  the  forest.  Over  and  over  again,  did  Lo 
goochie  think  to  take  the  trail  of  his  people,  and 
leave  a  spot  in  which  a  petty  strife  of  this  nature 
had  become,  though  a  familiar,  a  painful  practice  ; 
but  then,  as  he  thought  of  the  humiliating  acknow 
ledgment  which,  by  so  doing,  he  must  offer  to  his 
brother  gods,  his  pride  came  to  his  aid,  and  he 
determined  to  remain  where  he  was.  Then  again, 
as  he  rambled  along  the  sweet  waters  of  the 


LOGOOCHIE.  95 

branch,  and  talked  pleasantly  with  the  trees,  his 
old  acquaintance,  and  looked  down  upon  little 
groups  of  Indians  that  occasionally  came  to  visit 
this  or  that  tumulus  of  the  buried  nations,  he  felt 
a  sweet  pleasure  in  the  thought,  that  although  all 
were  gone  of  the  old  possessors,  and  a  new  people 
and  new  gods  had  come  to  sway  the  lands  of  his 
outlawed  race,  he  still  should  linger  and  watch 
over,  with  a  sacred  regard,  the  few  relics,  and  the 
speechless  trophies,  which  the  forgotten  time  had 
left  them.  He  determined  to  remain  still,  as  he 
long  had  been,  the  presiding  genius  of  the  place. 


V. 


From  habit,  at  length,  it  came  to  Logoochie  to 
serve,  with  kind  offices,  the  white  settlers,  just  as 
he  had  served  the  red  men  before  him.  He  soon 
saw  that,  in  many  respects,  the  people  dwelling  in 
the  woods,  however  different  their  color  and  ori 
gin,  must  necessarily  resemble  one  another.  They 
were  in  some  particulars  equally  wild  and  equally 
simple.  He  soon  discovered,  too,  that  however 
much  they  might  profess  indifference  to  the  super 
stitions  of  the  barbarous  race  they  had  superseded, 
they  were  not  a  whit  more  secure  from  the  occa- 


96  LOGOOCHIE. 

sional  tremors  which  followed  his  own  practices  or 
presence.  More  than  once  had  he  marked  the 
fright  of  the  young  woodman,  as,  looking  towards 
nightfall  over  his  left  shoulder,  he  had  beheld  the 
funny  twinkling  eyes,  and  the  long  slit  mouth, 
receding  suddenly  into  the  bush  behind  him.  This 
assured  Logoochie  of  the  possession  still,  even 
with  a  new  people,  of  some  of  that  power  which 
he  had  exercised  upon  the  old  ;  and  when  he  saw, 
too,  that  the  character  of  the  white  man  was  plain, 
gentle,  and  unobtrusive,  he  came,  after  a  brief  stu 
dy,  to  like  him  also  ;  though,  certainly,  in  less 
degree,  than  his  Indian  predecessors.  From  one 
step  of  his  acquaintance  with  the  new  comers  to 
another,  Logoochie  at  length  began  to  visit,  at 
stolen  periods,  and  to  prowl  around  the  little  cot 
tage,  of  the  squatter  ;  — sometimes  playing  tricks 
upon  his  household,  but  more  frequently  employ 
ing  himself  in  the  analysis  of  pursuits,  and  of  a 
character,  as  new  almost  to  him  as  to  the  people 
whose  places  they  had  assumed.  Nor  will  this 
seeming  ignorance,  on  the  part  of  Logoochie, 
subtract  a  single  jot  from  his  high  pretension  as  an 
Indian  god,  since  true  philosophy  and  a  delibe 
rate  reason,  must,  long  since,  have  been  aware,  that 
the  mythological  rule  of  every  people,  has  been 
adapted,  by  the  superior  of  all,  to  their  mental 


LOGOOCHIE.  97 

and  physical  condition ;  and  the  Great  Manneyto 
of  the  savage,  in  his  primitive  state,  was,  doubt 
less,  as  wise  a  provision  for  him  then,  as;  in  our 
time,  has  been  the  faith,  which  we  proudly  assume 
to  be  the  close  correlative  of  the  highest  point  of 
moral  liberty  and  social  refiuement. 


VI. 


In  this  way,  making  new  discoveries  daily,  and 
gradually  becoming  known  himself,  though  vague 
ly,  to  the  simple  cottagers  around  him,  he  continu 
ed  to  pass  the  time  with  something  more  of  satis 
faction  than  before  ;  though  still  suffering  pain  at 
every  stroke  of  the  sharp  and  smiting  axe,  as  it 
called  up  the  deploring  echoes  of  the  rapidly  yield 
ing  forest.  Day  axid  night  he  was  busy,  and  he 
resumed,  in  extcmo,  many  of  the  playful  humors, 
which  used  to  annoy  the  savages  and  compel  their 
homage.  It  is  true,  the  acknowledgment  of  the 
white  man  was  essentially  different  from  that  com 
monly  made  by  the  Indians.  When  their  camp- 
pots  were  broken,  their  hatchets  blunted,  their 
bows  and  arrows  warped,  or  they  had  suffered  any 
other  such  mischief  at  his  hands,  they  solemnly 
deprecated  his  wrath,  and  offered  him  tribute  to 

VOL.  II.  9 


98  LOGOOCHIE. 

disarm  his  hostility.  All  that  Logoochie  could 
extort  from  the  borderer,  was  a  sullen  oath,  in 
which  the  tricksy  spirit  was  identified  with  no  less 
a  person  than  the  devil,  the  Opitchi-Manneyto 
of  the  southern  tribes.  This  —  as  Logoochie 
well  knew  the  superior  rank  of  that  personage 
with  his  people  —  he  esteemed  a  compliment ;  and 
its  utterance  was  at  all  times  sufficiently  grateful 
in  his  ears  to  neutralize  his  spleen  at  the  moment. 
In  addition  to  this,  the  habit  of  smoking  more  fre 
quently  and  freely  than  the  Indians,  so  common 
to  the  white  man,  contributed  wonderfully  to  com 
mend  him  to  the  favor  of  Logoochie,  The  odor 
in  his  nostrils  was  savory  in  the  extreme,  and  he 
consequently  regarded  the  smoker  as  tendering,  in 
this  way,  the  deprecatory  sacrifice,  precisely  as 
the  savages  had  done  before  him.  So  grateful, 
indeed,  was  the  oblation  to  his  taste,  that  often,  of 
the  long  summer  evening,  would  he  gather  himself 
into  a  bunch,  in  the  thick  branches  of  the  high 
tree  overhanging  the  log-house,  to  inhale  the  reek 
ing  fumes  that  were  sent  up  by  the  half  oblivious 
woodman,  as  he  lay  reposing  under  its  grateful 
shadow. 


LOGOOCHIE.  99 


VII. 

There  was  one  of  these  little  cottages,  which, 
for  this  very  reason,  Logoochie  found  great  delight 
ill  visiting.  It  was  tenanted  by  a  sturdy  old  far 
mer,  named  Jones,  and  situated  on  the  skirts  of 
the  St.  Mary's  village,  about  three  miles  from  the 
Branch  of  Sweet  Water,  the  favorite  haunt  of 
Logoochie.  Jones  had  a  small  family  —  consist* 
ing,  besides  himself,  of  his  wife,  his  sister —  a  lady 
of  certain  age,  and  monstrous  demure  —  and  a 
daughter,  Mary  Jones,  as  sweet  a  May-flower  as 
the  eye  of  a  good  taste  would  ever  wish  to  dwell 
upon.  She  was  young —  only  sixteen,  and  had 
not  yet  learned  a  single  one  of  the  thousand  arts, 
which,  in  making  a  fine  coquette,  spoil  usually  a 
fine  woman.  She  thought  purely,  and  freely  said 
all  that  she  thought.  Her  old  father  loved  her— 
her  mother  loved  her,  and  her  aunt,  she  loved  her 
too,  and  proved  it,  by  doing  her  own,  and  the 
scolding  of  all  the  rest,  whenever  the  light-hearted 
Mary  said  more  in  her  eyes,  or  speech,  than  her 
aunt's  conventional  sense  of  propriety  deemed 
absolutely  necessary  to  be  said.  This  family  Lo 
goochie  rather  loved,  —  whether  it  was  because 


100  LOGOOCHIE. 

farmer  Jones  did  more  smoking  than  any  of  the 
neighbors,  or  his  sister  more  scolding,  or  his  wife 
more  sleeping,  or  his  daughter  more  loving,  we 
say  not,  but  such  certainly  was  the  fact.  Mary 
Jones  had  learned  this  latter  art,  if  none  other. 
A  tall  and  graceful  lad  in  the  settlement,  named 
Johnson,  had  found  favor  in  her  sight,  and  she 
in  his ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  they  made  the 
mutual  discovery.  He  was  a  fine  youth,  and  quite 
worthy  of  the  maiden  ;  but  then  he  was  of  an  in 
quiring,  roving  temper,  and  though  not  yet  arri 
ved  at  manhood,  frequently  indulged  in  rambles, 
rather  startling,  even  to  a  people  whose  habit  in 
that  respect  is  somewhat  proverbial.  He  had  gone 
in  his  wanderings  even  into  the  heart  of  the  Oke- 
phanokee  Swamp,  and  strange  were  the  wonders, 
and  wild  the  stories,  which  he  gave  of  that  region 
of  Indian  fable  —  a  region,  about  which  they 
have  as  many  and  as  beautiful  traditions,  as  any 
people  can  furnish  from  the  store  house  of  its  pri 
mitive  romance.  This  disposition  on  the  part 
of  Ned  Johnson,  though  productive  of  much  dis 
quiet  to  his  friends  and  family,  they  hoped  to 
overcome  or  restrain,  by  the  proposed  union  with 
Mary  Jones  —  a  connexion  seemingly  acceptable 
to  all  parties.  Mary,  like  most  other  good  young 
ladies,  had  no  doubt,  indeed,  of  her  power  to  con- 


LOGOOCHIE.  101 

trol  her  lover  in  his  wanderings,  when  once  they 
were  man  and  wife  ;  and  he,  like  most  good  young 
gentlemen  in  like  cases,  did  not  scruple  to  swear  a 
thousand  times,  that  her  love  would  be  as  a  chain 
about  his  feet,  too  potent  to  suffer  him  the  slightest 
indulgence  of  his  rambling  desires. 

VIII. 

So  things  stood,  when,  one  day,  what  should 
appear  in  the  Port  of  St.  Mary's —  the  Pioneer 
of  the  Line  —  but  a  vessel — a  schooner —  a 
brightly  painted,  sharp,  cunning  looking  craft,  all 
the  way  from  the  eastern  waters,  and  commanded 
by  one  of  that  daring  tribe  of  Yankees,  which 
will  one  day  control  the  commercial  world.  Never 
had  such  a  craft  shown  its  face  in  those  waters,  and 
great  was  the  excitement  in  consequence.  The 
people  turned  out,  en  masse,  —  men,  women,  and 
children, — all  gathered  upon  the  sands  at  the 
point  to  which  she  was  approaching,  and  while 
many  stood  dumb  with  mixed  feelings  of  wonder 
and  consternation,  others,  more  bold  and  elastic, 
shouted  with  delight.  Ned  Johnson  led  this  latter 
class,  and  almost  rushed  into  the  waters  to  meet 
the  new  comer,  clapping  his  hands  and  screaming 
9* 


102  LOGOOCHIE, 

like  mad.  Logoochie  himself,  from  the  close 
hugging  branches  of  a  neighboring  tree,  looked 
down,  and  wondered  and  trembled  as  he  beheld 
the  fast  rushing  progress  toward  him  of  what 
might  be  a  new  and  more  potent  God.  Then, 
when  her  little  cannon,  ostentatiously  large  for  the 
necessity,  belched  forth  its  thunders  from  her  side, 
the  joy  and  the  terror  was  universal.  The  rude 
divinity  of  the  red  men  leaped  down  headlong 
from  his  place  of  eminence,  and  bounded  on  with 
out  stopping,  until  removed  from  the  sight  and  the 
shouting,  in  the  thick  recesses  of  the  neighboring 
wood ;  while  the  children  of  the  squatters  taking 
to  their  heels,  went  bawling  and  squalling  back 
to  the  village,  never  thinking  for  a  moment  to 
reach  it  alive.  The  schooner  cast  her  anchor, 
and  her  captain  came  to  land.  Columbus  looked 
not  more  imposing,  leaping  first  to  the  virgin  soil 
of  the  New  World,  than  our  worthy  down-easter, 
commencing,  for  the  first  time,  a  successful  trade 
in  onions,  potatoes,  codfish,  and  crab-cider,  with 
the  delighted  Georgians  of  our  little  village.  All 
parties  were  overjoyed,  and  none  more  so  than  our 
young  lover,  Master  Edward  Johnson.  Pie 
drank  in  with  willing  ears,  and  a  still  thirsting  ap 
petite,  the  narrative  which  the  Yankee  captain 
gave  the  villagers  of  his  voyage.  His  long  yarn., 


LOGOOCH1E.  103 

be  sure,  was  stuffed  with  wonders.  The  new 
comer  soon  saw  from  Johnson's  looks  how  greatly 
he  had  won  the  respect  and  consideration  of  the 
youthful  wanderer,  and,  accordingly,  addressed 
some  of  his  more  spirited  and  romantic  adventures 
purposely  to  him.  Poor  Mary  Jones  beheld, 
with  dreadful  anticipations,  the  voracious  delight 
which  sparkled  in  the  eyes  of  Ned  as  he  listened 
to  the  marvellous  narrative,  and  had  the  thing 
been  at  all  possible  or  proper,  she  would  have  in 
sisted,  for  the  better  control  of  the  erratic  boy, 
that  old  Parson  Collins  should  at  once  do  his  duty, 
and  give  her  legal  authority  to  say  to  her  lover — 
"  obey,  my  dear,  —  stay  at  home,  or,"  etc.  She 
went  back  to  the  village  in  great  tribulation,  and 
Ned— r- lie  stayed  behind  with  Captain  Nicodemus 
DoolUtle,  of  the  "  Smashing  Nancy." 


IX. 


Now  Nicodemus,  or,  as  they  familiarly  called 
him  "  Old  Nick,"  was  a  wonderfully  'cute  person- 
*  age ;  and  as  he  was  rather  slack  of  hands  —  was 
not  much  of  a  penman  or  grammarian,  and  felt 
that  in  his  new  trade  he  should  need  greatly  the 
assistance  of  one  to  whom  the  awful  school  mys- 


104  LOGOOCHIE. 

tery  of  fractions  and  the  rule  of  three  had,  by  a 
kind  fortune,  been  developed  duly  —  he  regarded 
the  impression  which  he  had  obviously  made  upon 
the  mind  of  Ned  Johnson,  as  promising  to  neu 
tralize,  if  he  could  secure  him,  some  few  of  his 
own  deficiencies.  To  this  end,  therefore,  he  par 
ticularly  addressed  himself,  and,  as  might  be  sus 
pected,  under  the  circumstances,  he  was  eminently 
successful.  The  head  of  the  youth  was  soon 
stuffed  full  of  the  wonders  of  the  sea ;  and  after  a 
day  or  two  of  talk,  all  round  the  subject,  in  which 
time,  by  the  way,  the  captain  sold  off  all  his  "  no 
tions,"  he  came  point  blank  to  the  subject  in  the 
little  cabin  of  the  schooner.  Doolittle  sat  over 
against  him  with  a  pile  of  papers  before  him, 
some  of  which,  to  the  uneducated  down-easter,  were 
grievous  mysteries,  calling  for  a  degree  of  arith 
metical  knowledge  which  was  rather  beyond  his 
capacity.  His  sales  and  profits  —  his  accounts 
with  creditors  and  debtors — were  lobe  registered, 
and  these  required  him  to  reconcile  the  provoking 
cross  currencies  of  the  different  states  —  the  York 
shilling,  the  Pennsylvania  levy,  the  Georgia 
thrip,  the  pickayune  of  Louisiana,  the  Carolina 
fourpence  —  and  this  matter  was,  alone,  enough 
to  bother  him.  He  knew  well  enough  how  to 
count  the  coppers  on  hearing  them.  No  man 
was  more  expert  at  that.  But  the  difficulty  of 


LOGOOCHIE.  105 

bringing1  them  into  one  currency  on  paper,  called 
for  a  more  experienced  accountant  than  our  wor 
thy  captain  ;  and  the  youth  wondered  to  behold 
the  ease  with  which  so  great  a  person  could  be 
bothered.  Doolittle  scratched  his  head  in  vain. 
He  crossed  his  right  leg  over  his  left,  but  still  he 
failed  to  prove  his  sum.  He  reversed  the  move 
ment,  and  the  left  now  lay  problematically  of  the 
right.  The  product  was  very  hard  to  find.  He 
took  a  sup  of  cider,  and  then  he  thought  things 
began  to  look  a  little  clearer;  but  a  moment  after 
all  was  cloud  again,  and  at  length  the  figures 
absolutely  seemed  to  run  -into  one  another.  He 
could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  slapped  his  hand 
down,  at  length,  with  such  emphasis  upon  the 
table,  as  to  startle  the  poor  youth,  who,  all  the 
while,  had  been  dreaming  of  plunging  and  wrig 
gling  dolphins,  seen  in  all  their  gold  and  glitter, 
three  feet  or  less  in  the  waters  below  the  advancing 
prow  of  the  ship.  The  start  which  Johnson  made, 
at  once  showed  the  best  mode  to  the  captain  of 
extrication  from  his  difficulty. 

"  There  —  there,  my  dear  boy,  —  take  some 
cider  —  only  a  little —  do  you  good  —  best  thing 
in  the  world  —  There,  —  and  now  do  run  up  these 
figures,  and  see  how  we  agree." 

Ned  was   a  clever  led,   and  used  to  stand  head 


106  LOGOOCIIIE. 

of  his  class.  He  unravelled  the  mystery  in  little 
time — reconciled  the  cross-currency  of  the  seve 
ral  sovereign  states,  and  was  rewarded  by  his  pat 
ron  with  a  hearty  slap  upon  the  shoulder,  and 
another  cup  of  cider.  It  was  not  difficult  after 
this  to  agree,  and  half  fearing  that  all  the  while 
he  was  not  doing  right  by  Mary  Jones,  he  dashed 
his  signature,  in  a  much  worse  hand  than  he  was 
accustomed  to  write,  upon  a  printed  paper  which 
Doolittle  thrust  to  him  across  the  table. 

"And  now,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  captain, 
"you  are  my  secretary,  and  shall  have  best  berth, 
and  place  along  with  myself,  in  the  {  Smashing 
Nancy.'  " 


The  bargain  had  scarcely  been  struck,  and  the 
terms  well  adjusted  with  the  Yankee  captain,  be 
fore  Ned  Johnson  began  to  question  the  propriety 
of  what  he  had  done.  He  was  not  so  sure  that 
he  hud  not  been  hasty,  and  felt  that  the  pain  his 
departure  would  inflict  upon  Mary  Jones,  would 
certainly  be  as  great  in  degree,  as  the  pleasure 
which  his  future  adventures  must  bring  to  himself. 
Still,  when  he  looked  forward  to  those  adventures, 


LOGOOCHTE.  107 

and  remembered  the  thousand  fine  stones  of  Cap 
tain  Doolittle,  his  dreams  came  back,  and  with 
them  came  a  due  forgetfulness  of  the  hum-drum 
happiness  of  domestic  life.  The  life  in  the  woods, 
indeed  —  as  if  there  was  life,  strictly  speaking,  in 
the  eternal  monotony  of  the  pine  forests,  and  the 
drowsy  hum  they  keep  up  so  ceaselessly.  Wood- 
chopping,  too,  was  his  aversion,  and  when  he  re 
flected  upon  the  acknowledged  superiority  of  his 
own  over  all  the  minds  about  him,  he  felt  that  his 
destiny  called  upon  him  for  better  things,  and  a 
more  elevated  employment.  He  gradually  began 
to  think  of  Mary  Jones,  as  of  one  of  those  in 
fluences  which  had  substracted  somewhat  from  the 
nature  and  legitimate  exercises  of  his  own  genius ; 
and  whose  claims,  therefore,  if  acknowledged  by 
him,  as  she  required,  must  only  be  acknowledged 
at  the  expense  and  sacrifice  of  the  higher  pursuits 
and  purposes  for  which  the  discriminating  Provi 
dence  had  designed  him.  The  youth's  head  was 
fairly  turned  by  his  ambitious  yearnings,  and  it 
was  strange  how  sublimely  metaphysical  his  mu 
sings  now  made  him.  He  began  to  analyze  close 
ly  the  question,  since  made  a  standing  one  among 
the  phrenologists,  as  to  how  far  particular  heads 
were  intended  for  particular  pursuits.  General  prin 
ciples  were  soon  applied  to  special  developments  in 
his  own  case,  and  he  came  to  the  conclusion,  just  as 


108 


LOG'OOCHIE, 


he  placed  his  feet  upon  the  threshold  of  Father 
Jones's  cottage,  that  he  should  be  contending  with 
the  aim  of  fate,  and  the  original  design  of  the 
Deity  in  his  own  creation,  if  he  did  not  go  with 
Captain  Nicodemus  Doolittle,  of  the  "  Smashing 
Nancy." 


XI. 


"  Ahem  !  Mary —  "  said  Ned,  finding  the  little 
girl  conveniently  alone,  half  sorrowful,  and  turn 
ing  the  whizzing  spinning  wheel. 

"Ahem,  Mary  —  ahem  —  "  and  as  he  brought 
forth  the  not  very  intelligible  introduction,  his  eye 
had  in  it  a  vague  indeterminateness  that  looked 
like  confusion,  though,  truth  to  speak,  his  head 
was  high  and  confident  enough. 

"Well,  Ned— " 

"  Ahem  !  ah,  Mary,  what  did  you  think  of  the 
beautiful  vessel.  Was  n't  she  fine,  eh  ?" 

"Very — very  fine,  Ned,  though  she  was  so 
large,  and,  when  the  great  gun  was  fired,  my 
heart  beat  so —  I  was  so  frightened,  Ned  —  that  I 
was." 

"Frightened  —  why  what  frightened  you,  Ma 
ry,"  exclaimed  Ned  proudly — "  that  was  grand, 


LOGOOCHIE.  109 

and  as  soon  as  we  get  to  sea,  I  shall  shoot  it  off 
myself." 

"  Get  to  sea  — why,  Ned  —  get  to  sea.  Oh, 
dear,  why  —  what  do  you  mean  f"  and  the  be 
wildered  girl,  half  conscious  only,  yet  doubting 
her  senses,  now  left  the  wheel,  and  came  toward 
the  contracted  secretary  of  Captain  Doolittle. 

"  Yes,  get  to  sea,  Mary.  What !  don't  you 
know  I'm  going  with  the  captain  clear  away  to 
New  York  f" 

Now,  how  should  she  know,  poor  girl  ?  He 
knew  that  she  was  ignorant ;  but  as  he  did  not  feel 
satisfied  of  the  propriety  of  what  he  had  done, 
his  phraseology  had  assumed  a  somewhat  indirect 
and  distorted  complexion. 

"  You  going  with  the  Yankee,  Ned  —  you  don't 
say." 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  —  and  what  if  he  is  a  Yankee, 
and  sells  notions  —  I'm  sure,  there's  no  harm  in 
that ;  he's  a  main  smart  fellow,  Mary,  and  such 
wonderful  things  as  he  has  seen,  it  would  make 
your  hair  stand  on  end  to  hear  him.  I'll  see  them 
too,  Mary,  and  then  tell  you." 

"Oh,  Ned,  —  you're  only  joking  now  —  you 
don't  mean  it,  Ned  —  you  only  say  so  to  tease  me 
—  Isn't  it  so,  Ned  —  say  it  is — say  yes,  dear 
Ned,  only  say  yes." 

VOL.    II.  10 


110  LOGOOCHIE. 

And  the  poor  girl  caught  his  arm,  with  all  the 
confiding  warmth  of  an  innocent  heart,  and  as  the 
tears  gathered  slowly,  into  big  drops,  in  her  eyes, 
and  they  were  turned  appealingly  up  to  his,  the 
heart  of  the  wanderer  smote  him  for  the  pain  it 
had  inflicted  upon  one  so  gentle.  In  that  moment, 
he  felt  that  he  would  have  given  the  world  to  get 
off  from  his  bargain  with  the  captain  ;  but  this 
mood  lasted  not  long.  His  active  imagination, 
provoking  a  curious  thirst  after  the  unknown  ;  and 
his  pride,  which  suggested  the  weakness  of  a 
vacillating  purpose,  all  turned  and  stimulated  him 
to  resist  and  refuse  the  prayer  of  the  conciliating 
affection,  then  beginning  to  act  within  him  in  re 
buke.  Speaking  through  his  teeth,  as  if  he  dread 
ed  that  he  should  want  firmness,  he  resolutely 
reiterated  what  he  had  said ;  and,  while  the  sad 
girl  listened,  silently,  as  one  thunder  struck,  he 
went  on  to  give  a  glowing  description  of  the 
wonderful  discoveries  in  store  for  him  during  the 
proposed  voyage.  Mary  sunk  back  upon  her  stool, 
and  the  spinning  wheel  went  faster  than  ever ;  but 
never  in  her  life  had  she  broken  so  many  tissues. 
He  did  his  best  at  consolation,  but  the  true  heart 
ed  girl,  though  she  did  not  the  less  suffer  as  he 
pleaded,  at  least  forbore  all  complaint.  The  thing 
seemed  irrevocable,  and  so  she  resigned  herself, 


LOGOOCHIE.  Ill 

like  a  true  woman,  to  the  imperious  necessity. 
Ned,  after  a  while,  adjusted  his  plaited  straw  to 
his  cranium,  and  sallied  forth  with  a  due  impor 
tance  in  his  strut,  but  with  a  swelling  something 
at  his  heart,  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  quiet. 


XII. 

And  what  of  poor  Mary  —  the  disconsolate,  the 
deserted  and  denied  of  love.  She  said  nothing, 
ate  her  dinner  in  silence,  and  then  putting  on  her 
bonnet,  prepared  to  sally  forth  in  a  solitary  ram 
ble. 

"  What  ails  it,  child,"  said  old  Jones,  with  a 
rough  tenderness  of  manner. 

"  Where  going,  baby  ?"  asked  her  mother,  half 
asleep. 

"  Out  again,  Mary  Jones  —  out  again,"  voci 
ferously  shouted  the  antique  aunt,  who  did  all  the 
family  scolding. 

The  little  girl  answered  them  all  meekly,  with 
out  the  slightest  show  of  impatience,  and  proceed 
ed  on  her  walk. 

The  "  Branch  of  Sweet  Water,"  now  known 
by  this  name  to  all  the  villagers  of  St.  Mary's, 
was  then,  as  it  was  supposed  to  be  his  favorite 


132  LOGOOCHIE. 


place  of  abode,  commonly  styled,  "  The  Branch 
of  Logoochie."  The  Indians — such  stragglers 
as  either  lingered  behind  their  tribes,  or  occasion 
ally  visited  the  old  scenes  of  their  home,  —  had 
made  the  white  settlers  somewhat  acquainted  with 
the  character,  and  the  supposed  presence  of  that 
playful  God,  in  the  region  thus  assigned  him  ; 
and  though  not  altogether  assured  of  the  idleness 
of  the  superstition,  the  young  and  innocent  Mary 
Jones  had  no  apprehensions  of  his  power.  She, 
indeed,  had  no  reason  for  fear,  for  Logoochie  had 
set  her  down,  long  before,  as  one  of  his  favorites. 
Jle  had  done  her  many  little  services,  of  which 
she  was  unaware,  nor  was  she  the  only  member  of 
her  family  indebted  to  his  ministering  good  will. 
He  loved  them  all  —  all  but  the  scold,  and  many 
of  the  annoyances  to  which  the  old  maid  was  sub 
ject,  arose  from  this  antipathy  of  Logoochie.  But 
to  return. 

It;  was  in  great  tribulation  that  Mary  set  out  for 
her  usual  ramble  along  the  banks  of  the  "  Sweet 
Water."  Heretofore  most  of  her  walks  in  that 
quarter  had  been  made  in  company  with  her  lover. 
Here,  perched  in  some  sheltering  oak,  or  safely 
doubled  up  behind  some  swollen  pine,  the  playful 
Logoochie,  himself  unseen,  a  thousand  times  look 
ed  upon  the  two  loversj  as,  with  linked  arms,  and 


LOGOOCHIE.  113 

.. 

spirits  maintaining,  as  it  appeared,  a  perfect  uni 
son,  they  walked  in  the  shade  during  the  summer 
afternoon.  Though  sportive  and  mischievous, 
such  sights  were  pleasant  to  one  who  dwelt  alone ; 
and  there  were  many  occasions,  when,  their  love 
first  ripening  into  expression,  he  would  divert  from 
their  path,  by  some  little  adroit  art  or  manage 
ment  of  his  own,  the  obtrusive  and  unsympathi- 
sing  woodman,  who  might  otherwise  have  spoiled 
the  sport  which  he  could  not  be  permitted  to  share. 
Under  his  unknown  sanction  and  service,  there 
fore,  the  youthful  pair  had  found  love  a  rapture, 
until,  at  length,  poor  Mary  had  learned  to  regard 
it  as  a  necessary  too.  She  knew  the  necessity 
from  the  privation,  as  she  now  rambled  alone  ;  her 
wandering  lover  meanwhile  improving  his  know 
ledge  by  some  additional  chit-chat,  on  matters  and 
things  in  general,  with  the  captain,  with  whom  he 
had  that  day  dined  heartily  on  codfish  and  pota 
toes,  a  new  dish  to  young  Johnson*  which  gave 
him  an  additional  idea  of  the  vast  resources  of  the 

sea. 

10* 


114  LOGOOCHIE. 


XIII. 

Mary  Jones  at  length  trod  the  banks  of  the 
Sweet  Water,  and  footing  it  along  the  old  path 
way  to  where  the  rivulet  narrowed,  she  stood 
under  the.  gigantic  tree  which  threw  its  sheltering 
and  concealing  arms  completely  across  the  stream. 
With  an  old  habit,  rather  than  a  desire  for  its  re 
freshment,  she  took  the  gourd  from  the  limb  whence 
it  depended,  pro  bono  publico,  over  the  water,  and 
scooping  up  a  draught  of  the  innocent  beverage, 
she  proceeded  to  drink,  when,  just  as  she  carried 
the  vessel  to  her  lips,  a  deep  moan  assailed  her 
ears,  as  from  one  in  pain,  and  at  a  little  distance. 
She  looked  up,  and  the  moan  was  repeated,  and 
with  increased  fervency.  She  saw  nothing,  how 
ever,  and  somewhat  startled,  was  about  to  turn 
quickly  on  her  way  homeward,  when  a  third  and 
more  distinct  repetition  of  the  moan  appealed  so 
strongly  to  her  natural  sense  of  duty,  that  she 
could  stand  it  no  longer ;  and  with  the  noblest  of 
all  kinds  of  courage,  for  such  is  the  courage  of 
humanity,  she  hastily  tripped  over  the  log  which 
ran  across  the  stream,  and  proceeded  in  the  direc 
tion  from  whence  the  sounds  had  issued.  A  few 


LOGOOCHIE. 


115 


paces  brought  her  in  sight  of  the  sufferer,  who 
was  no  other  than  our  solitary  acquaintance,  Lo- 
goochie.  He  lay  upon  the  grass,  doubled  now 
into  a  knot,  and  now  stretching  and  writhing  him 
self  about  in  agony.  His  whole  appearance  in 
dicated  suffering,  and  there  was  nothing  equivocal 
in  the  expression  of  his  meanings.  The  astonish 
ment,  not  to  say  fright,  of  the  little  cottage  maiden, 
may  readily  be  conjectured.  She  saw,  for  the 
first  time,  the  hideous  and  uncouth  outline  of  his 
person — the  ludicrous  combination  of  feature  in 
his  face.  She  had  heard  of  Logoochie,  vaguely; 
and  without  giving  much,  if  any  credence,  to  the 
mysterious  tales  related  by  the  credulous  woodman, 
returning  home  at  evening,  of  his  encounter  in  the 
forest  with  its  pine-bodied  divinity  ;  —  and  now, 
as  she  herself  looked  down  upon  the  suffering  and 
moaning  monster,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say, 
whether  curiosity  or  fear  was  the  most  active  prin 
ciple  in  her  bosom.  He  saw  her  approach,  and 
he  half  moved  to  rise  and  fly ;  but  a  sudden  pang, 
as  it  seemed,  brought  him  back  to  a  due  sense  of 
the  evil  from  which  he  was  suffering,  and,  looking 
towards  the  maiden  with  a  mingled  expression  of 
good  humor  and  pain  in  his  countenance,  he  seem 
ed  to  implore  her  assistance.  The  poor  girl  did 
not  exactly  know  what  to  do,  or  what  to  conjee- 


116  LOGOOCHIE. 

ture.     What  sort  of  monster  was  it  before  her. 
What    queer,   distorted,    uncouth   limbs  —  what 
eyes,  that  twinkled   and  danced  into  one  another 
—  and  what  a  mouth.     She  was  stupified  for  a 
moment,  until  he  spoke,  and,  stranger  still,   in  a 
language  that  she  understood.     And  what  a  mu 
sical  voice,; — how  sweetly  did  the  words  roll  forth, 
and  how  soothingly,  yet  earnestly,  did  they  strike 
upon  her  ear.     Language  is  indeed   a  god,  and 
powerful  before  all  the  rest.     His  words  told  her 
all  his  misfortunes,  and  the  tones  were  all-sufficient 
to  inspire  confidence  in  one  even  more  suspicious 
than   our  innocent  cottager.     Besides,  humanity 
was  a  principle  in  her  heart,  while  fear  was  only 
an  emotion,  and  she  did  not  scruple,  where  the  two 
conflicted,  after  the  pause  for  reflection  of  a  mo 
ment,  to  determine   in  favor  of  the  former.     She 
approached   Logoochie  —  she   approached    him, 
firmly  determined  in  her  purpose,   but  trembling 
all  the  while.     As  she  drew  nigh,  the  gentle  mon 
ster  stretched  himself  out  at  length,  patiently  ex 
tending  one  foot  towards  her,   and  raising  it  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  indicate  the  place  which  af 
flicted  him.     She  could  scarce  forbear  laughing, 
when  she  looked  closely  upon  the  strange  feet. 
They  seemed  covered  with  bark,  like  that  of  the 
small  leafed  pine  tree ;  but  as  she  stooped,  to  her 


LOGOOCHIE.  117 

great  surprise,  the  coating  of  his  sole  flew  wide 
as  if  upon  a  hinge,  showing  below  it  a  skin  as 
soft,  and  white,  and  tender,  seemingly,  as  her 
own.  There,  in  the  centre  of  the  hollow,  lay  the 
cause  of  his  suffering.  A  poisonous  thorn  had 
penetrated,  almost  to  the  head,  as  he  had  sudden 
ly  leaped  from  the  tree,  the  day  before,  upon  the 
gun  being  fired  from  the  "  Smashing  Nancy." 
The  spot  around  it  was  greatly  inflamed,  and  Lo- 
goochie,  since  the  accident,  had  vainly  striven,  in 
every  possible  way,  to  rid  himself  of  the  intruder. 
His  short,  inflexible  arms,  had  failed  so  to  reach 
it  as  to  make  his  fingers  available  ;  and  then, 
having  claws  rather  than  nails,  he  could  scarce 
have  done  any  thing  for  his  own  relief,  even 
could  they  have  reached  it.  He  now  felt 
the  evil  of  his  isolation,  and  the  danger  of  his 
seclusion  from  his  brother  divinities.  His  case 
was  one,  indeed,  of  severe  bachelorism  ;  and, 
doubtless,  had  his  condition  been  less  than  that  of 
a  deity,  the  approach  of  Mary  Jones  to  his  aid, 
at  such  a  moment,  would  have  produced  a  deci 
ded  revolution  in  his  domestic  economy.  Still 
trembling,  the  maiden  bent  herself  down  to  the 
task,  and  with  a  fine  courage,  that  did  not  allow 
his  uncouth  limbs  to  scare,  or  his  wild  and  mon 
strous  features  to  deter,  she  applied  her  own  small 
fingers  to  the  foot,  and  carefully  grappling  the 


118  LOGOOCHIE. 

head  of  the  wounding  thorn  with  her  nails,  with 
a  successful  effort,  she  drew  it  forth,  and  rid  him 
of  his  encumbrance.  The  wood-god  leaped  to 
his  feet,  threw  a  dozen  antics  in  the  air,  to  the 
great  terror  of  Mary,  then  running  a  little  way 
into  the  forest,  soon  returned  with  a  handful  of 
fresh  leaves,  which  he  bruised  between  his  fingers, 
and  applied  to  the  irritated  and  wounded  foot. 
He  was  well  in  a  moment  after,  and  pointing  the 
astonished  Mary  to  the  bush  from  which  he  had 
taken  the  anointing  leaves,  thus  made  her  acquaint 
ed  with  one  item  in  the  history  of  Indian  phar 
macy. 


XIV. 

"  The  daughter  of  the  white  clay  —  she  has 
come  to  Logoochie,  —  to  Logoochie  when  he  was 
suffering. 

"  She  is  a  good  daughter  to  Logoochie,  and 
the  green  spirits  who  dwell  in  the  forest,  they  love, 
and  will  honor  her. 

"  They  will  throw  down  the  leaves  before  her, 
they  will  spread  the  branches  above  her,  they  will 
hum  a  sweet  song  in  the  tree  top,  when  she  walks 
underneath  it. 


LOGOOCHIE.  119 

"  They  will  watch  beside  her,  as  she  sleeps  in 
the  shade,  in  the  warm  sun  of  the  noon-day, — 
they  will  keep  the  flat  viper,  and  the  war  rattle, 
away  from  her  ear. 

"  They  will  do  this  in  honor  to  Logoochie,  for 
they  know  Logoochie,  and  he  loves  the  pale 
daughter.  She  came  to  him  in  his  suffering. 

"  She  drew  the  poison  thorn  from  his  foot — - 
she  fled  not  away  when  she  saw  him. 

"  Speak,  —  let  Logoochie  hear  —  there  is  sor 
row  in  the  face  of  the  pale  daughter.  Logoochie 
would  know  it  and  serve  her,  for  she  is  sweet  in 
the  eye  of  Logoochie." 


XV. 

Thus  said,  or  rather  sung,  the  uncouth  god,  to 
Mary,  as,  after  the  first  emotions  of  his  own  joy 
were  over^  he  beheld  the  expression  of  melancho 
ly  in  her  countenance.  Somehow,  there  was 
something  so  fatherly,  so  gentle,  and  withal,  so 
melodious,  in  his  language,  that  she  soon  unbosom 
ed  herself  to  him,  telling  him  freely  and  in  the 
utmost  confidence,  though  without  any  hope  of 
relief  at  his  hands,  the  history  of  her  lover,  and 
the  new  project  for  departure  which  he  had  now 


120  LOGOOCHIE. 

got  in  his  head.  She  was  surprised,  and  pleased, 
when  she  saw  that  Logoochie  smiled  at  the  nar 
rative.  She  was  not  certain,  yet  she  had  a  vague 
hope,  that  he  could  do  something  for  her  relief; 
and  her  conjecture  was  not  in  vain.  He  spoke  — 
"  Why  should  the  grief  be  in  the  heart  and  the 
cloud  on  the  face  of  the  maiden  ?  Is  not  Logoo 
chie  to  help  her  ?  He  stands  beside  her  to  help. 
Look,  daughter  of  the  pale  clay  —  look  !  There 
is  power  in  the  leaf  that  shall  serve  thee  at  the 
bidding  of  Logoochie ;  —  the  bough  and  the 
branch  have  a  power  for  thy  good,  when  Logoo 
chie  commands ;  and  the  little  red-berry  which  I 
now  pluck  from  the  vine  hanging  over  thee,  it  is 
strong  with  a  spirit  which  is  good  in  thy  work, 
when  Logoochie  has  said  in  thy  service.  Lo,  I 
speak  to  the  leaf,  and  to  the  bough,  and  to  the 
berry.  They  shall  speak  to  the  water,  and  one 
draught  from  the  branch  of  Logoochie,  shall  put 
chains  on  the  heart  of  the  youth  who  would  go 
forth  with  the  stranger." 

As  he  spoke,  he  gathered  the  leaf,  broke  a  bough 
from  an  overhanging  tree,  and,  with  a  red  berry, 
pulled  from  a  neighboring  vine,  approached  the 
Branch  of  Sweet  Water,  and  turning  to  the  west, 
muttered  a  wild  spell  of  Indian  power,  than  threw 
the  tributes  into  the  rivulet.  The  smooth  surface 


LOGOOCHIE.  121 

of  the  stream  was  in  an  instant  ruffled  —  the  offer 
ings  were  whirled  suddenly  around — the  waters 
broke,  boiled,  bubbled,  and  parted,  and  in  another 
moment,  the  bough,  the  berry,  and  the  leaf, 
had  disappeared  from  their  sight. 


XVI. 

Mary  Jones  was  not  a  little  frightened  by  these 
exhibitions,  but  she  was  a  girl  of  courage,  and 
having  once  got  over  the  dread  and  the  novelty 
of  contact  with  a  form  so  monstrous  as  that  of 
Logoochie,  the  after  effort  was  not  so  great.  She 
witnessed  the  incantations  of  the  demon  without 
a  word,  and  when  they  were  over,  she  simply  lis 
tened  to  his  farther  directions,  half  stupified  with 
what  she  had  seen,  and  not  knowing  how  much  of 
it  to  believe.  He  bade  her  bring  her  lover,  as 
had  been  the  custom  with  them  hitherto,  to  the 
branch,  and  persuade  him  to  drink  of  its  waters. 
When  she  inquired  into  its  effect,  which,  at  length, 
with  much  effort,  she  ventured  to  do,  he  bade  her 
be  satisfied,  and  all  would  go  right.  Then,  with 
a  word,  which  was  like  so  much  music —  a  word 
she  did  not  understand,  but  which  sounded  like  a 
parting  acknowledgment,  —  he  bounded  away 

VOL.  ii.  11 


122  LOGOOCHIE. 

into  the  woods,  and,  a  moment  after,  was  com 
pletely  hidden  from  her  sight. 


XVII. 

Poor  Mary,  not  yet  relieved  from  her  surprise, 
was  still  sufficiently  aroused  and  excited  to  believe 
there  was  something  in  it ;  and  as  she  moved  off 
on  her  way  home,  how  full  of  anticipation  was  her 
thoughts  —  pleasant  anticipation,  in  which  her 
heart  took  active  interest,  and  warmed,  at  length, 
into  a  strong  and  earnest  hope.  She  scarcely 
gave  herself  time  to  get  home,  and  never  did  the 
distance  between  Sweet  Water  Branch  and  the 
cottage  of  her  father  appear  so  extravagantly 
great.  She  reached  it,  however,  at  last ;  and  there, 
to  her  great  joy,  sat  her  lover,  alongside  the  old 
man,  and  giving  him  a  glowing  account,  such  as 
he  had  received  from  the  Yankee  captain,  of  the 
wonders  to  be  met  with  in  his  coming  voyage. 
Old  Jones  listened  patiently,  puffing  his  pipe  all 
the  while,  and  saying  little,  but  now  and  then,  by 
way  of  commentary,  uttering  an  ejaculatory  grunt, 
most  commonly,  of  sneering  disapproval. 

"  Better  stay  at  home,  ad  —  d  sight,  Ned  John 
son,  and  follow  the  plough." 
II. 


LOGOOCHIE.  123 

Ned  Johnson,  however,  thought  differently,  and 
it  was  not  the  farmer's  grunts  or  growlings  that 
was  now  to  change  his  mind.  Fortunately  for  the 
course  of  true  love,  there  were  other  influences  at 
work,  and  the  impatience  of  Mary  Jones  to  try 
them  was  evident,  in  the  clumsiness  which  she  ex 
hibited  while  passing  the  knife  under  the  thin  crust 
of  the  corn  hoe-cake  that  night  for  supper,  and 
laying  the  thick  masses  of  fresh  butter  between 
the  smoking  and  savory-smelling  sides,  as  she 
turned  them  apart.  The  evening  wore,  at  length, 
and,  according  to  an  old  familiar  habit,  the  lovers 
walked  forth  to  the  haunted  and  fairy-like  branch 
of  Logoochie,  or  the  Sweet  Water.  It  was  the 
last  night  in  which  they  were  to  be  together,  prior 
to  his  departure  in  the  Smashing  Nancy.  That 
bouncing  vessel  and  her  dexterous  captain  were 
to  depart  with  early  morning ;  and  it  was  as  little 
as  Ned  Johnson  could  do,  to  spend  that  night 
with  his  sweetheart.  They  were  both  melancho 
ly  enough,  depend  upon  it.  She,  poor  girl,  hoping 
much,  yet  still  fearing  —  for  when  was  true  love 
without  fear  —  she  took  his  arm,  hung  fondly  upon 
it,  and,  without  a  word  between  them  for  a  long 
while,  inclined  him,  as  it  were  naturally,  in  the 
required  direction.  Ned  really  loved  her,  and 
was  sorry  enough  when  the  thought  came  to  him, 


124  LOGOOCHIE. 

that  this  might  be  the  last  night  of  their  associa 
tion  ;  but  he  plucked  up  courage,  with  the  mo 
mentary  weakness,  and  though  he  spoke  kindly, 
yet  he  spoke  fearlessly,  and  with  a  sanguine  tem 
per,  upon  the  prospect  of  the  sea-adventure  be 
fore  him.  Mary  said  little  —  her  heart  was  too 
full  for  speech,  but  she  looked  up  now  and  then 
into  his  eyes,  and  he  saw,  by  the  moonlight, 
that  her  own  glistened  as  with  tears.  He  turned 
away  his  glance  as  he  saw  it,  for  his  heart  smote 
him  with  the  reproach  of  her  desertiona 

XVIII. 

They  came  at  length  to  the  charmed  streamlet, 
the  Branch  of  the  Sweet  Water,  to  this  day  known 
for  its  fascinations.  The  moon  rose  sweetly  above 
it,  the  trees  coming  out  in  her  soft  light,  and  the 
scatterings  of  her  thousand  beams  glancing  from 
the  green  polish  of  their  crowding  leaves.  The 
breeze  that  rose  along  with  her  was  soft  and  woo 
ing  as  herself;  while  the  besprinkling  fleece  of  the 
small  white  clouds,  clustering  along  the  sky,  and 
flying  from  her  splendors,  made  the  scene,  if  pos 
sible,  far  more  fairy-like  and  imposing.  It  was  a 
scene  for  love,  and  the  heart  of  Ned  Johnson 


LOGOOCHIE.  125 

grew  more  softened  than  ever.  His  desire  for 
adventure  grew  modified ;  and  when  Mary  bent 
to  the  brooklet,  and  scooped  up  the  water  for  him 
to  drink,  with  the  water-gourd  that  hung  from  the 
bough,  wantoning  in  the  breeze  that  loved  to  play 
over  the  pleasant  stream,  Ned  could  not  help  think 
ing  she  never  looked  more  beautiful.  The  water 
trickled  from  the  gourd  as  she  handed  it  to  him, 
falling  like  droppings  of  the  moonshine  again  into 
its  parent  stream.  You  should  have  seen  her  eye 

—  so  full  of  hope  —  so  full  of  doubt  —  so  beauti 
ful  —  so  earnest,  —  as  he  took  the  vessel  from  her 
hands.     For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  and  then  how 
her  heart  beat  and  her  limbs  trembled.     But  he 
drank  off  the  contents  at  a  draught,  and  gave  no 
sign  of  emotion.     Yet  his  emotions  were  strange 
and  novel.     It  seemed  as  if  so  much  ice  had  gone 
through  his  veins  in  that  moment.     He  said  no 
thing,  however,  and  dipping  up  a  gourd  full  for 
Mary,  he  hung  the  vessel  again  upon  the  pendant 
bough,  and  the  two  moved  away   from  the  water 

—  not,   however,    before  the   maiden   caught   a 
glimpse,  through  the  intervening  foliage,  of  those 
two  queer,  bright,  little  eyes  of  Logoochie,  with 
a  more  delightful  activity  than  ever,  dancing  gay- 
ly  into  one. 

11* 


126  LOGOOCHIE. 


XIX. 

But  the  spell  had  been  effectual,  and  a  new  na 
ture  filled  the  heart  of  him,  who  had  heretofore 
sighed  vaguely  for  the  unknown.  The  roving 
mood  had  entirely  departed  ;  he  was  no  longer  a 
wanderer  in  spirit,  vexed  to  be  denied.  A  soft 
languor  overspread  his  form  —  a  weakness  gather 
ed  and  grew  about  his  heart,  and  he  now  sighed 
unconsciously.  How  soft,  yet  how  full  of  em 
phasis,  was  the  pressure  of  Mary's  hand  upon  his 
arm  as  she  heard  that  sigh ;  and  how  forcibly  did 
it  remind  the  youth  that  she  who  walked  beside 
him  was  his  own  —  his  own  forever.  With  the 
thought  came  a  sweet  perspective —  a  long  vista 
rose  up  before  his  eyes,  crowded  with  images  of 
repose  and  plenty,  such  as  the  domestic  nature 
likes  to  dream  of. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  I  will  not  go  with  this  captain  — 
I  will  not,  I  will  stay  at  home  with  you,  and  we 
shall  be  married." 

Thus  foe  spoke,  as  the  crowding  thoughts,  such 
as  we  have  described,  came  up  before  his  fancy. 

"Will  you  —  shall  we  f  Oh,  dear  Edward,  I 
am  so  happy." 


LOGOOCHIE.  327 

And  the  maiden  blessed  Logoochie,  as  she  ut 
tered  her  response  of  happy  feeling. 

"  I  will,  dear  —  but  I  must  hide  from  Doolittle. 
I  have  signed  papers  to  go  with  him,  and  he  will 
be  so  disappointed  —  I  must  hide  from  him." 

"Why  must  you  hide,  Edward  —  he  cannot 
compel  you  to  go,  unless  you  please ;  and  you 
just  to  be  married." 

Edward  thought  she  insisted  somewhat  unne 
cessarily  upon  the  latter  point,  but  he  replied  to 
the  first. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  can.  I  signed  papers  —  I 
don't  know  what  they  were,  for  I  was  rash  and 
foolish  —  but  they  bound  me  to  go  with  him,  and 
unless  I  keep  out  of  the  way,  I  shall  have  to  go." 

"  Oh,  dear  —  why,  Ned,  where  will  you  go — 
you  must  hide  close, —  I  would  not  have  him  find 
you  for  the  world." 

"I  reckon  not.  As  to  the  hiding,  I  can  go 
where  all  St.  Mary's  can't  find  me ;  and  that's  in 
Okephanokee." 

"Oh,  don't  go  so  far — it  is  so  dangerous,  for 
some  of  the  Seminoles  are  there  !" 

"  And  what  if  they  are  ?  —  I  don't  care  that  for 
the  Seminoles.  They  never  did  me  any  harm, 
and  never  will.  But,  I  shan't  go  quite  so  far. 
Bull  swamp  is  close  enough  for  me,  and  there  I 


128  LOGOOCHIE. 

can  watch  the   'Smashing  Nancy'  'till  she  gets 
out  to  sea." 

XX. 


Having  thus  determined,  it  was  not  long  before 
Ned  Johnson  made  himself  secure  in  his  place  of 
retreat,  while  Captain  Doolittle,  of  the  "  Smashing 
Nancy,"  in  great  tribulation,  ransacked  the  vil 
lage  of  St.  Mary's  in  every  direction  for  his  arti 
cled  seaman,  for  such  Ned  Johnson  had  indeed 
become.  Doolittle  deserved  to  lose  him  for  the 
trick  which,  in  this  respect,  he  had  played  upon 
the  boy.  His  search  proved  fruitless,  and  he  was 
compelled  to  sail  at  last.  Ned,  from  the  top  of  a 
high  tree  on  the  edge  of  Bull  swamp,  watched  his 
departure,  until  the  last  gleam  of  the  white  sail 
flitted  away  from  the  horizon  ;  then  descending, 
he  made  his  way  back  to  St.  Mary's,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  he  claimed  and  received  the  hand 
of  his  pretty  cottager  in  marriage.  Logoochie 
was  never  seen  in  the  neighborhood  after  this 
event.  His  accident  had  shown  him  the  necessity 
of  keeping  with  his  brethren,  for,  reasoning  from 
all  analogy,  gods  must  be  social  animals  not  less 


LOGOOCHIE.  129 

than  men.  But,  in  departing,  he  forgot  to  take 
the  spell  away  which  he  had  put  upon  the  Sweet 
Water  Branch ;  and  to  this  day,  the  stranger, 
visiting  St.  Mary's,  is  warned  not  to  drink  from 
the  stream,  unless  he  proposes  to  remain ;  for  still, 
as  in' the  case  of  Ned  Johnson,  it  binds  the  feet 
and  enfeebles  the  enterprise  of  him  who  partakes 
of  its  pleasant  waters. 


JOCASSEE. 


A  story  of  the  old-time  Cherokee, 

Of  a  true-love,  that,  like  an  angel's  breath, 

Hath  a  sweet  fragrance,  still  surviving  death, 

And  a  bloom  Time  can  touch  not  —  won  from  high; 

A  flow'r — for  such  is  true  love —  of  the  sky. 


JOCASSEE 


"  KEOWEE  Old  Fort,"  as  the  people  in  that 
quarter  style  it,  is  a  fine  antique  ruin  and  relic  of 
the  revolution,  in  the  district  of  Pendleton,  South 
Carolina.  The  region  of  country  in  which  we 
find  it,  of  itself,  is  highly  picturesque  and  interest 
ing.  The  broad  river  of  Keowee,  which  runs 
through  it,  though  comparatively  small,  as  a 
stream,  in  America,  would  put  to  shame,  by  its 
size,  not  less  than  its  beauty,  one  half  of  the  far- 
famed  and  boasted  rivers  of  Europe ;  —  and  then 
the  mountains,  through  and  among  which  it  winds 
its  way,  embody  more  of  beautiful  situation  and 
romantic  prospect,  than  art  can  well  figure  to  the 
eye,  or  language  convey  to  the  imagination.  To 
understand,  you  must  see  it.  Words  are  of  little 

VOL.  ii.  12 


134  JOCASSEE. 

avail  when  the  ideas  overcrowd  utterance ;  and 
even  vanity  itself  is  content  to  be  dumb  in  the 
awe  inspired  by  a  thousand  prospects,  like  Nia 
gara,  the  ideal  of  a  god,  and  altogether  beyond 
the  standards  common  to  humanity. 

It  is  not  long  since  I  wandered  through  this  in 
teresting  region,  under  the  guidance  of  my  friend, 

Col.  G ,  who  does   the  honors  of  society, 

in  that  quarter,  with  a  degree  of  ease  and  unosten 
tatious  simplicity,  which  readily  makes  the  visiter 
at  home.     My  friend  was  one  of  those  citizens  to 
whom  one's  own  country  is  always  of  paramount 
interest,  and  whose  mind  and  memory,  according 
ly,  have  been  always  most  happily  employed  when 
storing  away  and  digesting  into  pleasing  narrative 
those  thousand  little  traditions  of  the  genius  loci, 
which  give  life  to  rocks  and  valleys,   and  people 
earth  with  the  beautiful  colors  and    creatures  of 
the    imagination.     These,    for    the    gratification 
of  the  spiritual   seeker,  he  had  forever  in   readi 
ness  ;  and,  with  him  to  illustrate  them,  it  is  not 
surprising  if  the  grove  had  a  moral  existence  in 
my  thoughts,  and  all  the  waters  around  breathed, 
and  were  instinct  with  poetry.     To  all  his  narra 
tives  I  listened  with  a  satisfaction  which  book-sto 
ries  do  not  often  afford  me.     The  more  he  told, 
the  more  he  had  to  tell ;  for  nothing  staled 


JOCASSEE.  135 

"  His  infinite  variety." 

There  may  have  been  something  in  the  style  of 
telling  his  stories  ;  there  was  much,  certainly,  that 
was  highly  attractive  in  his  manner  of  doing 
every  thing,  and  this  may  have  contributed  not  a 
little  to  the  success  of  his  narratives.  Perhaps, 
too,  my  presence,  upon  the  very  scene  of  each 
legend,  may  have  given  them  a  life  and  a  vraisem- 
blance  they  had  wanted  otherwise. 

In  this  manner,  rambling  about  from  spot  to 
spot,  I  passed  five  weeks,  without  being,  at  any 
moment,  conscious  of  time's  progress.  Day  after 
day,  we  wandered  forth  in  some  new  direction, 
contriving  always  to  secure,  and  without  effort, 
that  pleasurable  excitement  of  novelty,  for  which 
the  great  city  labors  in  vain,  spite  of  her  vary 
ing  fashions,  and  crowding,  and  not  always  in 
nocent  indulgences.  From  forest  to  river,  from 
hill  to  valley,  still  on  horseback,  —  for  the  moun 
tainous  character  of  the  country  forbade  any  more 
luxurious  form  of  travel,  —  we  kept  on  our  way, 
always  changing  our  ground  with  the  night,  and 
our  prospect  with  the  morning.  In  this  manner 
we  travelled  over  or  round  the  Six  Mile,  and  the 
Glassy,  and  a  dozen  other  mountains ;  and  some 
times,  with  a  yet  greater  scope  of  adventure, 


136  JOCASSEE. 

pushed  off  on  a  much  longer  ramble,  —  such  as 
took  us  to  the  falls  of  the  White  Water,  and  gave 
us  a  glimpse  of  the  beautiful  river  of  Jocassee, 
named  sweetly  after  the  Cherokee  maiden,  who 
threw  herself  into  its  bosom  on  beholding  the  scalp 
of  her  lover  dangling  from  the  neck  of  his  con 
queror.  The  story  is  almost  a  parallel  to  that  of 
the  sister  of  Horatius,  with  this  difference,  that 
our  Cherokee  girl  did  not  wait  for  the  vengeance 
of  her  brother,  and  altogether  spared  her  re 
proaches.  I  tell  the  story,  which  is  pleasant  and 
curious,  in  the  language  of  my  friend,  from  whom 
I  first  heard  it. 


II. 


"  The  Occonies  and  the  Little  Estatoees,  or, 
rather,  the  Brown  Vipers  and  the  Green  Birds, 
were  both  minor  tribes  of  the  Cherokee  nation, 
between  whom,  as  was  not  unfrequently  the  case, 
there7  sprung  up  a  deadly  enmity.  The  Estatoees 
had  their  town  on  each  side  of  the  two  creeks, 
which,  to  this  day,  keep  their  name,  and  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  Keowee  river.  The  Occonies 
occupied  a  much  larger  extent  of  territory,  but  it 
lay  on  the  opposite,  or  west  side  of  the  same  river. 


JOCASSEE.  137 

Their  differences  were  supposed  to  have  arisen 
from  the  defeat  of  Chatuga,  a  favorite  leader  of 
the  Occonies,  who  aimed  to  be  made  a  chief  of 
the  nation  at  large.  The  Estatoee  warrior,  Tox- 
away,  was  successful ;  and  as  the  influence  of 
Chatuga  was  considerable  with  his  tribe,  he  la 
bored  successfully  to  engender  in  their  bosoms  a 
bitter  dislike  of  the  Estatoees.  This  feeling  was 
made  to  exhibit  itself  on  every  possible  occasion. 
The  Occonies  had  no  word  too  foul  by  which  to 
describe  the  Estatoees.  They  likened  them,  in 
familiar  speech,  to  every  thing  which,  in  the  Indian 
imagination,  is  accounted  low  and  contemptible. 
In  reference  to  war,  they  were  reputed  women,  — 
in  all  other  respects,  they  were  compared  to  dogs 
and  vermin;  and* with  something  of  a  Christian 
taste  and  temper,  they  did  not  scruple,  now  and 
then,  to  invoke  the  devil  of  their  more  barbarous 
creed,  for  the  eternal  disquiet  of  their  successful 
neighbors,  the  Little  Estatoees,  and  their  great 
chief,  Toxaway. 

"  In  this  condition  of  things  there  could  not  be 
much  harmony ;  and,  accordingly,  as  if  by  mu 
tual  consent,  there  was  but  little  intercourse  be 
tween  the  two  people.  When  they  met,  it  was 
either  to  regard  one  another  with  a  cold,  repulsive 
distance,  or  else,  as  enemies,  actively  to  foment 
12* 


138  JOCASSEE. 

quarrel  and  engage  in  strife.  But  seldom,  save 
on  national  concerns,  did  the  Estatoees  cross  the 
Keowee  to  the  side  held  by  the  Occonies ;  and 
the  latter,  more  numerous,  and  therefore  less  re 
luctant  for  strife  than  their  rivals,  were  yet  not  often 
found  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  same  river. 
Sometimes,  however,  small  parties  of  hunters  from 
both  tribes,  rambling  in  one  direction  or  another, 
would  pass  into  the  enemy's  territory  ;  but  this 
was  not  frequent,  and  when  they  met,  quarrel  and 
bloodshed  were  sure  to  mark  the  adventure. 

"  But  there  was  one  young  warrior  of  the  Es 
tatoees,  who  did  not  give  much  heed  to  this  condi 
tion  of  parties,  and  who,  moved  by  an  errant  spi 
rit,  and  wholly  insensible  to  fear,  would  not  hesi 
tate,  when  the  humor  seized  him,  to  cross  the 
river,  making  quite  as  free,  when  he  did  so,  with 
the  hunting-grounds  of  the  Occonies  as  they  did 
themselves.  This  sort  of  conduct  did  not  please 
the  latter  very  greatly,  but  Nagoochie  was  always 
so  gentle,  and  at  the  same  time  so  brave,  that  the 
young  warriors  of  Occony  either  liked  or  feared 
him  too  much  to  throw  themselves  often  in  his 
path,  or  labor,  at  any  time,  to  arrest  his  pro 
gress. 

«  In  one  of  these  excursion,  Nagoochie  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Jocassee,  one  of  the  sweetest 


JOCASSEE.  139 

of  the  dusky  daughters  of  Occony.  He  was 
rambling,  with  bow  and  quiver,  in  pursuit  of  game, 
as  was  his  custom,  along  that  beautiful  enclosure, 
which  the  whites  have  named  after  her,  the  Jocas- 
See  valley.  The  circumstances  under  which  they 
met  were  all  strange  and  exciting,  and  well  calcu 
lated  to  give  her  a  power  over  the  young  hunter, 
to  which  the  pride  of  the  Indian  does  not  often 
suffer  him  to  submit.  It  was  towards  evening 
when  Nagoochie  sprung  a  fine  buck  from  a  hollow 
of  the  wood  along  side  him,  and  just  before  you 
reach  the  ridge  of  rocks  which  hem  in  and  form 
this  beautiful  valley.  With  the  first  glimpse  of  his 
prey,  flew  the  keen  shaft  of  Nagoochie;  but, 
strange  to  say,  though  renowned  as  a  hunter,  not 
less  than  as  a  warrior,  the  arrow  failed  entirely, 
and  flew  wide  of  the  victim.  Off  he  bounded 
headlong  after  the  fortunate  buck  ;  but  though, 
every  now  and  then,  getting  him  within  range,  — 
for  the  buck  took  the  pursuit  coolly,  —  the  hunter 
still  most  unaccountably  failed  to  strike  him. 
Shaft  after  shaft  had  fallen  seemingly  hurtless  from 
his  sides ;  and  though,  at  frequent  intervals,  suf 
fered  to  approach  so  nigh  to  the  animal  that  he 
could  not  but  hope  still  for  better  fortune,  to  his 
great  surprise,  the  wary  buck  would  dash  off 
when  he  least  expected  it,  bounding  away  in  some 


140  JOCASSEE. 

new   direction,  with  as  much  life   and  vigor  as 
ever.     What  to  think  of  this,   the  hunter  knew 
not ;  but  such  repeated  disappointments  at  length 
impressed  it  strongly  upon  his  mind,  that  the  ob 
ject  he  pursued  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  an 
Occony  wizard,  seeking  to  entrap  him;  so,  with 
a  due  feeling  of  superstition,  and  a  small  touch  of 
sectional   venom  aroused  into    action  within   his 
heart,  Nagoochie,  after  the  manner  of  his  people, 
promised  a  green  bird  —  the  emblem  of  his  tribe 
—  in  sacrifice  to  the  tutelar  divinity  of  Estato,  if 
he  could  only  be  permitted  to  overcome  the  potent 
enchanter,  who  had  thus  dazzled  his  aim  and  blunt 
ed   his  arrows.     He  had  hardly  uttered  this  vow, 
when  he  beheld  the  insolent  deer  mincingly  gra 
zing  upon  a  beautiful  tuft  of  long  grass  in  the  val 
ley,  just  below  the  ledge  of  rock  upon  which  he 
stood.     Without  more  ado,  he  pressed  forward  to 
bring  him  within  fair  range  of  his  arrows,  little 
doubting,  at  the  moment,  that  the  Good   Spirit 
had  heard  his  prayer,  and  had  granted  his  desire. 
But,   in   his  hurry,  leaping  too  hastily  forward, 
and  with  eyes  fixed  only  upon  his  proposed  victim, 
his  foot  was  caught  by  the  smallest  stump  in  the 
world,  and  the  very  next  moment  found  him  pre 
cipitated  directly  over  the  rock  and  into  the  val 
ley,  within  a  few  paces  of  the  deer,  who  made  off 


JOCASSEE.  141 

with  the  utmost  composure,  looking  back,  as  he 
did  so,  to  the  eyes  of  the  wounded  hunter,  for  all 
the  world  as  if  he  enjoyed  the  sport  mightily. 
Nagoochie,  as  he  saw  this,  gravely  concluded  that 
he  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  .wiles  of  the  Occony 
wizard,  and  looked  confidently  to  see  half  a  score 
of  Occonies  upon  him,  taking  him  at  a  vantage. 
Like  a  brave  warrior,  however,  he  did  not  des 
pond,  but  determining  to  gather  up  his  loins  for 
battle  and  the  torture,  he  sought  to  rise  and  put 
himself  in  a  state  of  preparation.  What,  how 
ever,  was  his  horror,  to  find  himself  utterly  unable 
to  move  ;  —  his  leg  had  been  broken  in  the  fall, 
and  he  was  covered  with  bruises  from  head  to  foot. 
"  Nagoochie  gave  himself  up  for  lost ;  but  he 
had  scarcely  done  so,  when  he  heard  a  voice, — 
the  sweetest,  he  thought,  he  had  ever  heard  in  his 
life,  —  singing  a  wild,  pleasant  song,  such  as  the 
Occonies  love,  which,  ingeniously  enough,  sum 
med  up  the  sundry  reasons  why  the  mouth,  and 
not  the  eyes,  had  been  endowed  with  the  faculty 
of  eating.  These  reasons  were  many,  but  the  last 
is  quite  enough  for  us.  According  to  the  song, 
had  the  eyes,  and  not  the  mouth,  been  employed 
for  this  purpose,  there  would  soon  be  a  famine  in 
the  land,  for  of  all  gluttons,  the  eyes  are  the  great 
est.  Nagoochie  groaned  aloud,  as  he  heard  the 


142  JOCASSEE. 

song,  the  latter  portion  of  which  completely  in 
dicated  the  cause  of  his  present  misfortune.  It 
was,  indeed,  the  gluttony  of  the  eyes  which  had 
broken  his  leg.  This  sort  of  allegory  the  Indians 
are  fond  of,  and  Jocassee  knew  all  their  legends. 
Certainly,  thought  Nagoochie,  though  his  leg 
pained  him  wofully  at  the  time,  —  certainly  I 
never  heard  such  sweet  music,  and  such  a  voice. 
The  singer  advanced  as  she  sung,  and  almost 
stumbled  over  him. 

"  '  Who  are  you  ?'  she  asked  timidly,  neither 
retreating  nor  advancing ;  and,  as  the  wounded 
man  looked  into  her  face,  he  blessed  the  Occony 
wizard,  by  whose  management  he  deemed  his  leg 
to  have  been  broken. 

"  '  Look  ?'  was  the  reply  of  the  young  warrior, 
throwing  aside  the  bearskin  which  covered  his 
bosom, —  '  look,  girl  of  Occony  !  'tis  the  totem 
of  a  chief ;'  and  the  green  bird  stamped  upon  his 
left  breast,  as  the  badge  of  his  tribe,  showed  him 
a  warrior  of  Estate,  and  something  of  an  enemy. 
But  his  eyes  had  no  enmity,  and  then  the  broken 
leg  !  Jocassee  was  a  gentle  maiden,  and  her  heart 
melted  with  the  condition  of  the  warrior.  She 
made  him  a  sweet  promise,  in  very  pretty  lan 
guage,  and  with  the  very  same  voice,  the  music  of 
which  was  so  delicious ;  and  then,  with  the  fleet- 


JOCASSEE, 


143 


ness  of  a  young  doe,  she  went  off  to  bring  him 
succor. 


III. 


"  Night,  in  the  meanwhile,  came  on  ;  and  the 
long  howl  of  the  wolf,  as  he  looked  down  from 
the   crag,  and  waited  for  the  thick  darkness  in 
which  to  descend   the   valley,  came  freezingly  to 
the  ear  of  Nagoochie.     *  Surely,'  he  said  to  him 
self,  '  the  girl  of  Occony  will  come  back.     She 
has  too  sweet  a  voice  not  to  keep  her  word.     She 
will  certainly  come  back.'     While  he  doubted, 
he  believed.     Indeed,  though  still  a  very  young 
maiden,  the  eyes  of  Jocassee  had  in  them  a  great 
deal  that  was  good  for  little  beside,  than  to  per 
suade,  and  force   conviction  ;    and   the  belief  in 
them  was  pretty  extensive  in  the  circle  of  her  rus 
tic  acquaintance.     All  people  love  to  believe  in 
fine  eyes,  and  nothing  more  natural  than  for  lovers 
to  swear  by  them.     Nagoochie  did  not  swear  by 
those  of  Jocassee,  but  he  did  most  religiously  be 
lieve  in  them;    and  though  the  night  gathered 
fast,   and  the  long  howl  of  the  wolf  came  close 
from  his  crag,  down  into   the  valley,  the  young 


144  JOCASSEE. 

hunter  of  the  green  bird  did  not  despair  of  the 
return  of  the  maiden. 

"  She  did  return,  and  the  warrior  was  insensible. 
But  the  motion  stirred  him  ;  the  lights  gleamed 
upon  him  from  many  torches  ;  he  opened  his  eyes, 
and  when  they  rested  upon  Jocassee,  they  forgot 
to  close  again.  She  had  brought  aid  enough,  for 
her  voice  was  powerful  as  well  as  musical ;  and, 
taking  due  care  that  the  totem  of  the  green  bird 
should  be  carefully  concealed  by  the  bearskin, 
with  which  her  own  hands  covered  his  bosom,  she 
had  him  lifted  upon  a  litter,  constructed  of  several 
young  saplings,  which,  interlaced  with  withes, 
binding  it  closely  together,  and  strewn  thickly  with 
leaves,  made  a  couch  as  soft  as  the  wounded  man 
could  desire.  In  a  few  hours,  and  the  form  of 
Nagoochie  rested  beneath  the  roof  of  Attakulla, 
the  sire  of  Jocassee.  She  sat  beside  the  young 
hunter,  and  it  was  her  hand  that  placed  the  pure 
balm  upon  his  lips,  and  poured  into  his  wounds 
and  bruises  the  strong  and  efficacious  balsam  of 
Indian  pharmacy. 

"  Never  was  nurse  more  careful  of  her  charge. 
Day  and  night  she  watched  by  him,  and  few  were 
the  hours  which  she  then  required  for  her  own  plea 
sure  or  repose.  Yet  why  was  Jocassee  so  devo*- 
ted  to  the  stranger  ?  She  never  asked  herself  so 


JOCASSEE.  145 

unnecessary  a  question  ;  but  as  she  was  never  so 
well  satisfied,  seemingly,  as  when  near  him,  the 
probability  is  she  found  pleasure  in  her  tendance. 
It  was  fortunate  for  him  and  for  her,  that  her  fa 
ther  was  not  rancorous  towards  the  people  of  the 
Green  Bird,  like  the  rest  of  the  Occonies.  It 
might  have  fared  hard  with  Nagoochie  otherwise. 
But  Attakulla  was  a  wise  old  man,  and  a  good  ; 
and  when  they  brought  the  wounded  stranger  to 
his  lodge,  he  freely  yielded  him  shelter,  and  went 
forth  himself  to  Chinabee,  the  wise  medicine  of 
the  Occonies.  The  eyes  of  Nagoochie  were  turn 
ed  upon  the  old  chief,  and  when  he  heard  his 
name,  and  began  to  consider  where  he  was,  he 
was  unwilling  to  task  the  hospitality  of  one  who 
might  be  disposed  to  regard  him,  when  known, 
in  an  unfavorable  or  hostile  light.  Throwing 
aside,  therefore,  the  habit  of  circumspection,  which 
usually  distinguishes  the  Indian  warrior,  he  unco 
vered  his  bosom,  and  bade  the  old  man  look  upon 
the  totem  of  his  people,  precisely  as  he  had  done 
when  his  eye  first  met  that  of  Jocassee. 

"  'Thy  name  ?  What  do  the  people  of  the 
Green  Bird  call  the  young  hunter  ?'  asked  At 
takulla. 

" «  They  name  Nagoochie  among  the  braves  of 

VOL.  n.  13 


146  JOCASSEE. 

the  Estate  :  they  will  call  him  a  chief  of  the  Che 
rokee,  like  Toxaway,'  was  the  proud  reply. 

"  This  reference  was  to  a  sore  subject  with  the 
Occonies,  and  perhaps   it  was  quite  as  imprudent 
as  it  certainly  was  in  improper  taste  for  him  to 
make  it.     But  knowing  where  he  was,  excited  by 
fever,  and   having  —  to  say  much  in  little  —  but 
an  unfavorable   opinion  of  Occony  magnanimity, 
he  was  more  rash  than  reasonable.     At  that  mo 
ment,  too,  Jocassee   had  made   her  appearance, 
and   the  spirit  of  the  young  warrior,  desiring  to 
look  big  in  her  eyes,  had  prompted  him  to  a  fierce 
speech  not  altogether  necessary.     He  knew  not 
the  generous  nature  of  Attakulla  ;   and  when   the 
old  man  took  him  by  the  hand,  spoke  well  of  the 
Green  Bird,  and  called  him  his  '  son,'  the  pride  of 
Nagoochie   was    something   humbled,    while    his 
heart  grew  gentler  than  ever.     His  '  son !'  that 
was  the  pleasant  part ;  and  as  the  thoughts  grew 
more  and  more  active  in  his  fevered  brain,    he 
looked  to  Jocassee  with  such  a  passionate  admi 
ration  that  she  sunk  back  with  a  happy  smile  from 
the  flame-glance  which  he  set  upon  her.     And  day 
after  day  she  tended   him,  until  the  fever  passed 
off,  and  the  broken  limb  was  set  and  had  reknit- 
ted,  and  the  bruises  were   all  healed   upon   him. 
Yet  he  lingered.     He  did  not  tl.uk  Liaiself  quite 


JOCASSEE.  147 

well,  and  she  always  agreed  with  him  in  opinion. 
Once  and  again  did  he  set  off,  determined  not  to 
return,  but  his  limb  pained  him,  and  he  felt  the 
fever  come  back,  whenever  he  thought  of  Jocas- 
see ;  and  so  the  evening  found  him  again  at  the 
lodge,  while  the  fever-balm,  carefully  bruised  in, 
milk,  was  in  as  great  demand  as  ever  for  the  in 
valid.  But  the  spirit  of  the  warrior  at  length 
grew  ashamed  of  these  weaknesses  ;  and,  with  a 
desperate  effort,  for  which  he  gave  himself  no  lit 
tle  credit,  he  completed  his  determination  to  depart 
with  the  coming  of  the  new  moon.  But  even  this 
decision  was  only  effected  by  compromise.  Love 
settled  the  affair  with  conscience,  after  his  own  fa 
shion,  and  under  his  direction,  following  the  dusky 
maiden  into  the  little  grove  that  stood  beside  the 
cottage,  Nagoochie  claimed  her  to  fill  the  lodge 
of  a  young  warrior  of  the  Green  Bird.  She 
broke  the  wand  which  he  presented  her,  and  seiz 
ing  upon  the  torch  which  she  carried,  he  buried  it 
in  the  bosom  of  a  neighboring  brook,  and  thus, 
after  their  simple  forest  ceremonial,  Jocassee  be 
came  the  betrothed  of  Nagoochie. 


148  JOCASSEK. 


IV. 


"But  we  must  keep  this  secret  to  ourselves,  for 
as  yet  it  remained  unknown  to  Attakulla,  and  the 
time  could  not  come  for  its  revealment  until  the 
young  warrior  had  gone  home  to  his  people.  Jo- 
cassee  was  not  so  sure  that  all  parties  would  be  so 
ready  as  herself  to  sanction  her  proceeding.  Of 
her  father's  willingness,  she  had  no  question,  for 
she  knew  his  good  nature  and  good  sense  ;  but 
she  had  a  brother  of  whom  she  had  many  fears 
and  misgivings.  He  was  away,  on  a  great  hunt 
of  the  young  men,  up  at  Charashilactay,  or  the 
falls  of  the  White  Water,  as  we  call  it  to  this  day 
—  a  beautiful  cascade  of  nearly  forty  feet,  the 
water  of  which  is  of  a  milky  complexion.  How 
she  longed,  yet  how  she  dreaded,  to  see  that  bro 
ther  7  He  was  a  fierce,  impetuous,  sanguinary 
youth,  who,  to  these  characteristics,  added  another 
still  more  distasteful  to  Jocassee  ;  —  there  was  not 
a  man  among  all  the  Occonies  who  so  hated  the 
people  of  the  Green  Bird  as  Cheochee.  What 
hopes,  or  rather  what  fears,  were  in  the  bosom  of 
that  maiden ! 

"  But  he  came  not.     Day  after  day  they  look- 


JOCASSEE.  149 

ed  for  his  return,  and  yet  lie  came  not ;  but  in  his 
place  a  runner,  with  a  bearded  stick,  a  stick  cover 
ed  with  slips  of  skin,  torn  from  the  body  of  a  wolf. 
The  runner  passed  by  the  lodge  of  Attakulla,  and 
all  its  inmates  were  aroused  by  the  intelligence  he 
brought.  A  wolf-hunt  was  commanded  by  Moi- 
toy,  the  great  war-chief  or  generalissimo  of  the 
Cherokee  nation,  to  take  place,  instnnter^  at  Cha- 
rashilactay,  where  an  immense  body  of  wolves  had 
herded  together,  and  had  become  troublesome 
neighbors.  Old  and  young,  who  had  either 
taste  for  the  adventure,  or  curiosity  to  behold  it, 
at  once  set  off  upon  the  summons;  and  Attakulla, 
old  as  he  was,  and  Nagoochie,  whose  own  great 
prowess  in  hunting  had  made  it  a  passion,  deter 
mined  readily  upon  the  journey.  Jocassee,  too, 
joined  the  company,  — for  the  maidens  of  Che 
rokee  were  bold  spirits,  as  well  as  beautiful,  and 
loved  to  ramble,  particularly  when,  as  in  the  pre 
sent  instance,  they  went  in  company  with  their 
lovers.  Lodge  after  lodge,  as  they  pursued  their 
way,  poured  forth  its  inmates,  who  joined  them  in 
their  progress,  until  the  company  had  swollen  into 
a  goodly  caravan,  full  of  life,  anxious  for  sporf, 
and  carrying,  as  is  the  fashion  among  the  Indians, 
provisions  of  smoked  venison  and  parched  grain, 
in  plenty,  for  many  days. 
J3* 


150  JOCASSEE. 

"  They  came,  at  length,  to  the  swelling  hills, 
the  long  narrow  valleys  of  the  Keochee,  and  its 
tribute  river  of  Toxaway,  named  afier  that  great 
chief  of  the  Little  Estatoees,  of  whom  we  have 
already  heard  something.  At  one  and  the  same 
moment,  they  beheld  the  white  waters  of  Cha- 
rashilactay,  plunging  over  the  precipice,  and  the 
hundred  lodges  of  the  Cherokee  hunters.  There 
they  had  gathered — the  warriors  and  their  wo 
men —  twenty  different  tribes  of  the  same  great 
nation  being  represented  on  the  ground  ;  each 
tribe  having  its  own  cluster  of  cabins,  and  rising 
up  in  the  midst  of  each,  the  long  pole  on  which 
hung  the  peculiar  emblem  of  the  clan.  It  was 
not  long  before  Nagoochie  marshalled  himself 
along  with  his  brother  Estatoees  —  who  had  count 
ed  him  lost  —  under  the  beautiful  green  bird  of 
his  tribe,  which  waved  about  in  the  wind,  over  the 
heads  of  their  small  community. 

"  The  number  of  warriors  representing  the  Es- 
tato  in  that  great  hunt  was  inconsiderable  —  but 
fourteen  —  and  the  accession,  therefore,  of  so 
promising  a  brave  as  Nagoochie  was  no  small 
matter.  They  shouted  with  joy  at  his  coming, 
and  danced  gladly  in  the  ring  between  the  lodges 
—  the  young  women,  in  proper  taste,  and  with 


JOCASSEE.  151 

due  spirit,  hailing,  with  a  sweet  song,  the  return 
of  so  handsome  a  youth,  and  one  yet  unmarried. 

"  Over  against  the  lodges  of  the  Estatoees,  lay 
the  more  imposing  encampment  of  the  rival  Occo- 
nies,  who  turned  out  strongly,  as  it  happened,  on 
this  occasion.  They  were  more  numerous  than 
any  other  of  the  assembled  tribes,  as  the  hunt  was 
to  take  place  on  a  portion  of  their  own  territory. 
Conscious  of  their  superiority,  they  had  not,  you 
may  be  sure,  forborne  any  of  the  thousand  sneers 
and  sarcasms  which  they  were  never  at  a  loss  to 
find  when  they  spoke  of  the  Green  Bird  warriors ; 
and  of  all  their  clan,  none  was  so  bitter,  so  un 
compromising,  generally,  in  look,  speech,  and  ac 
tion,  as  Cheochee,  the  fierce  brother  of  the  beauti 
ful  Jocassee.  Scorn  was  in  his  eye,  and  sarcasm 
on  his  lips,  when  he  heard  the  rejoicings  made  by 
the  Estatoees  on  the  return  of  the  long-lost  hunter. 

"  *  Now  wherefore  screams  the  painted  bird  to 
day  ?  why  makes  he  a  loud  cry  in  the  ears  of  the 
brown  viper  that  can  strike  ?'  he  exclaimed  con 
temptuously  yet  fiercely. 

"  It  was  Jocassee  that  spoke  in  reply  to  her  bro 
ther,  with  the  quickness  of  woman's  feeling,  which 
they  wrong  greatly  who  hold  it  subservient  to  the 
strength  of  woman's  cunning.  In  her  reply, 
Cheochee  saw  the  weakness  of  her  heart. 


152  JOCASSEE. 

"  '  They  scream  for  Nagoochie,'  said  the  girl ; 
t  it  is  joy  that  the  young  hunter  comes  back  that 
makes  the  green  bird  to  sing  to-day.' 

"  '  Has  Jocassee  taken  a  tongue  from  the  green 
bird,  that  she  screams  in  the  ears  of  the  brown 
viper?  What  has  the  girl  to  do  with  the  thought 
of  the  warrior  ?  Let  her  go  —  go,  bring  drink  to 
Cheochee.' 

"  Abashed  and  silent,  she  did  as  he  commanded, 
and  brought  meekly  to  the  fierce  brother,  a  gourd 
filled  with  the  brown  beer  which  the  Cherokccs 
love.  She  had  nothing  further  to  say  on  the  sub 
ject  of  the  Green  Bird  warrior,  for  whom  she  had 
already  so  unwarily  spoken.  But  her  words  had 
not  fallen  unregarded  upon  the  ears  of  Chcochee, 
nor  had  the  look  of  the  fond  heart  which  spoke 
out  in  Lcr  glance,  passed  unseen  by  the  keen  eye 
of  that  jealous  brother.  He  had  long  before  this 
heard  of  the  great  fame  of  Nagoochie  as  a 
hunter,  and  in  his  ire  he  was  bent  to  surpass  him. 
Envy  had  grown  into  hate,  when  he  heard  that 
this  great  reputation  was  that  of  one  of  the  ac 
cursed  Estatoees;  and,  not  satisfied  with  the  desire 
to  emulate,  he  also  aimed  to  destroy.  This  feel 
ing  worked  like  so  much  gall  in  his  bosom  ;  and 
when  his  eyes  looked  upon  the  fine  form  of  Na 
goochie,  and  beheld  its  symmetry,  grace,  and 


JOCASSEE. 


153 


manhood,  his  desire  grew  into  a  furious  passion 
which  made  him  sleepless.  The  old  chief,  Atta- 
kulla,  his  father,  told  him  all  the  story  of  Nagoo- 
chie's  accident  —  how  Jocassee  had  found  him  : 
and  how,  in  his  own  lodge,  he  had  been  nursed 
and  tended.  The  old  man  spoke  approvingly  of 
Nagoochie  ;  and,  the  better  to  bring  about  a  good 
feeling  for  her  lover,  Jocassee  humbled  herself 
greatly  to  her  brother,  —  anticipated  his  desires, 
and  studiously  sought  to  serve  him.  But  all  this 
failed  to  effect  a  favorable  emotion  in  the  breast 
of  the  malignant  young  savage  towards  the  young 
hunter  of  the  Green  Bird.  He  said  nothing, 
however,  of  his  feelings  ;  but  they  looked  out  arid 
were  alive  to  the  sight  in  every  feature,  whenever 
any  reference,  however  small,  was  made  to  the 
subject  of  his  ire.  The  Indian  feeling  is  subtlety, 
and  Cheochee  was  a  warrior  already  named  by 
the  old  chiefs  of  Cherokee. 


V. 


"  The  next  day  came  the  commencement  of  the 
great  hunt,  and  the  warriors  were  up  betimes  and 
active.  Stations  were  chosen,  the  keepers  of 
which,  converging  to  a  centre,  were  to  hem  in 


154  JOCASSEE* 

the  wild  animal  on  whose  tracks  they  were  going, 
The  wolves  were  known  to  be  in  a  hollow  of  the 
hills  near  Charashilactay,  which  had  but  one 
outlet ;  and  points  of  close  approximation  across 
this  outlet  were  the  stations  of  honor;  for,  goad 
ed  by  the  hunters  to  this  passage,  and  failing  of 
egress  in  any  other,  the  wolf,  it  was  well  known, 
would  be  then  dangerous  in  the  extreme.  Well 
calculated  to  provoke  into  greater  activity  the  jea 
lousies  between  the  Occonies  and  the  Green  Birds, 
was  the  assignment  made  by  Moitoy,  the  chief,  of 
the  more  dangerous  of  these  stations  to  these  two 
clans.  They  now  stood  alongside  of  one  ano 
ther,  and  the  action  of  the  two  promised  to  be 
joint  and  corrcsponsive.  Such  an  appointment,  in 
the  close  encounter  with  the  wolf,  necessarily  pro 
mised  to  bring  the  two  parties  into  immediate  con 
tact  ;  and  such  was  the  event.  As  the  day  ad 
vanced,  and  the  hunters,  contracting  their  circles, 
brought  the  different  bands  of  wolves  into  one, 
and  pressed  upon  them  to  the  more  obvious  and 
indeed  the  only  outlet,  the  badges  of  the  Green 
Bird  and  trie  Brown  Viper — the  one  consisting 
of  the  stuffed  skin  and  plumage  of  the  Carolina 
parrot,  and  the  other  the  attenuated  viper,  filled 
out  with  moss,  and  winding,  with  erect  head, 
around  the  pole,  to  the  top  of  which  it  was  stuck 


JOCASSEE.  355 

— were  at  one  moment,  in  the  indiscriminate  hunt, 
almost  mingled  over  the  heads  of  the  two  parties. 
Such  a  sight  was  pleasant  to  neither,  and  would, 
at  another  time,  of  a  certainty,  have  brought 
about  a  squabble.  As  it  was,  the  Occonies  drove 
their  badge-carrier  from  one  to  the  other  end  of 
their  ranks,  thus  studiously  avoiding  the  chance 
of  another  collision  between  the  viper  so  adored, 
and  the  green  bird  so  detested.  The  pride  of  the 
Estatoees  was  exceedingly  aroused  at  this  exhibi 
tion  of  impertinence,  and  though  a  quiet  people 
enough,  they  began  to  think  that  forbearance  had 
been  misplaced  in  their  relations  with  their  pre 
suming  and  hostile  neighbors.  Had  it  not  been 
for  Nagoochie,  who  had  his  own  reasons  for  suf 
fering  yet  more,  the  Green  Birds  would  certainly 
have  plucked  out  the  eyes  of  the  Brown  Vipers, 
or  tried  very  hard  to  do  it ;  but  the  exhortations 
to  peace  of  the  young  warrior,  and  the  near 
neighborhood  of  the  wolf,  quelled  any  open  show 
of  the  violence  they  meditated  ;  but,  Indian-like, 
they  determined  to  wait  for  the  moment  of  greatest 
quiet,  as  that  most  fitted  for  taking  away  a  few 
scalps  from  the  Occony.  With  a  muttered  curse, 
and  a  contemptuous  slap  of  the  hand  upon  their 
thighs,  the  more  furious  among  the  Estatoees  sa 
tisfied  their  present  anger,  and  then  addressed 


156  JOCASSEE. 

themselves  more  directly  to  the  business  before 
them. 

"  The  wolves,  goaded  to  desperation  by  the 
sound  of  hunters  strewn  all  over  the  hills  around 
them,  were  now,  snapping  and  snarling,  and  with 
eyes  that  flashed  with  a  terrible  anger,  descending 
the  narrow  gully  towards  the  outlet  held  by  the 
two  rival  tribes.  A  united  action  was  therefore 
demanded  of  those  who,  for  a  long  time  past,  had 
been  conscious  of  no  feeling  or  movement  in  com 
mon.  But  here  they  had  no  choice — no  time, 
indeed,  to  think.  The  fierce  wolves  were  upon 
them,  doubly  furious  at  finding  the  only  passage 
stuck  full  of  enemies.  Well  and  manfully  did 
the  hunters  stand  and  seek  the  encounter  with  the 
infuriated  beasts.  The  knife  and  the  hatchet,  that 
day,  in  the  hand  of  Occony  and  Estato,  did  fear 
ful  'execution.  The  Brown  Vipers  fought  nobly, 
and  with  their  ancient  reputation.  But  the  Green 
Birds  were  the  hunters,  after  all ;  and  they  were 
now  stimulated  into  double  adventure  and  effort, 
by  an  honorable  ambition  to  make  up  for  all  de 
ficiencies  of  number  by  extra  valor,  and  the  care 
ful  exercise  of  all  that  skill  in  the  arts  of  hunting 
for  which  they  have  always  been  the  most  re 
nowned  of  the  tribes  of  Cherokee.  As,  one  by 
one,  a  fearful  train,  the  wolves  wound  into  sight 


JOCASSEE.  157 

along  this  or  that  crag  of  the  gully,  arrow  after 
arrow  told  fearfully  upon  them,  for  there  were  no 
marksmen  like  the  Estatoees.  Nor  did  they  stop 
at  this  weapon.  The  young  Nagooehie,  more 
than  ever  prompted  to  such  enterprise,  led  the 
way  ;  and  dashing  into  the  very  path  of  the  teeth- 
gnashing  and  claw-rending  enemy,  he  grappled 
in  desperate  fight  the  first  that  offered  himself, 
and  as  the  wide  jaws  of  his  hairy  foe  opened  upon 
him,  with  a  fearful  plunge  at  his  side,  adroitly 
leaping  to  the  right,  he  thrust  a  pointed  stick 
down,  deep,  as  far  as  he  could  send  it,  into  the 
monster's  throat,  then  pressing  back  upon  him, 
with  the  rapidity  of  an  arrow,  in  spite  of  all  his 
fearful  writhings  he  pinned  him  to  the  ground, 
while  his  knife,  in  a  moment  after,  played  fatally 
in  his  heart.  Another  came,  and  in  a  second,  his 
hatchet  cleft  and  crunched  deep  into  the  skull  of 
the  hairy  brute,  leaving  him  senseless,  without 
need  of  a  second  stroke.  There  was  no  rivalling 
deeds  of  valour  so  desperate  as  this  5  and  with  in 
creased  bitterness  of  soul  did  Cheochee  and  his 
followers  hate  in  proportion  as  they  admired. 
They  saw  the  day  close,  and  heard  the  signal 
calling  them  to  the  presence  of  the  great  chief 
Moitoy,  conscious,  though  superior  in  numbers, 
they  could  not  at  all  compare  in  skill  and  success 

VOL.    II.  14 


158  JOCASSEE. 

with  the  long-despised,  but  now  thoroughly-hated 
Estatoees. 

"  And  still  more  great  the  vexation,  still  more 
deadly  the  hate,  when  the  prize  was  bestowed  by 
the  hand  of  Moitoy,  the  great  military  chief  of 
Cherokee  — when,  calling  around  him  the  tribes, 
and  carefully  counting  the  number  of  their  several 
spoils,  consisting  of  the  skins  of  the  wolves  that 
had  been  slain,  it  was  found  that  of  these  the 
greater  number,  in  proportion  to  their  force,  had 
fallen  victims  to  the  superior  skill  or  superior  dar 
ing  of  the  people  of  the  Green  Bird.  And  who 
had  been  their  leader  ?  the  rambling  Nagoochie 
—  the  young  hunter  who  had  broken  his  leg 
among  the  crags  of  Occony,  and,  in  the  same 
adventure,  no  longer  considered  luckless,  had  won 
the  young  heart  of  the  beautiful  Jocassee. 

"  They  bore  the  young  and  successful  warrior 
into  the  centre  of  the  ring,  and  before  the  great 
Moitoy.  He  stood  up  in  the  presence  of  the  as 
sembled  multitude,  a  brave  and  fearless,  and  fine 
looking  Cherokee.  At  the  signal  of  the  chief, 
the  young  maidens  gathered  into  a  group,  and 
sung  around  him  a  song  of  compliment  and  ap 
proval,  which  was  just  as  much  as  to  say,  —  <  Ask, 
and  you  shall  have.'  He  did  ask ;  and  before 
the  people  of  the  Brown  Viper  could  so  far  re- 


JOCASSEE.  159 

cover  from  their  surprise  as  to  interfere,  or  well 
comprehend  the  transaction,  the  bold  Nagoochie 
had  led  the  then  happy  Jocassee  into  the  presence 
of  Moitoy  and  the  multitude,  and  had  claimed  the 
girl  of  Occony  to  fill  the  green  lodge  of  the  Es- 
tato  hunter. 


VI. 


"That  was  the  signal  for  uproar  and  commo 
tion.  The  Occonies  were  desperately  angered, 
and  the  fierce  Cheochee,  whom  nothing,  not  even 
the  presence  of  the  great  war-chief,  could  restrain, 
rushed  forward,  and  dragging  the  maiden  violently 
from  the  hold  of  Nagoochie,  hurled  her  backward 
into  the  ranks  of  his  people ;  then,  breathing  no 
thing  but  blood  and  vengeance,  he  confronted 
him  with  ready  knife  and  uplifted  hatchet,  defying 
the  young  hunter,  in  that  moment,  to  the  fight. 

" '  E-cha-e-cha,  e-kerro — echa-herro-echa-herro,9 
was  the  warwhoop  of  the  Occonies ;  and  it  ga 
thered  them  to  a  man  around  the  sanguinary 
young  chief  who  uttered  it.  '  Echa-kerro,  echa- 
herro,'  he  continued,  leaping  wildly  in  air  with  the 
paroxysm  of  rage  which  had  seized  him,  —  'the 
brown  viper  has  a  tooth  for  the  green  bird.  The 


160  JOG  AS  SEE. 

Occony  is  athirst  —  he  would  drink  blood  from 
the  dog-heart  of  the  Estato.  E-cha-e-cha-herro, 
Occony.9  And  again  he  concluded  his  fierce 
speech  with  that  thrilling  roll  of  sound,  which,  as 
the  so  much  dreaded  warwhoop,  brought  a  death 
feeling  to  the  heart  of  the  early  pioneer,  and  made 
the  mother  clasp  closely,  in  the  deep  hours  of  the 
night,  the  young  and  unconscious  infant  to  her 
bosom.  But  it  had  no  such  influence  upon  the 
fearless  spirit  of  Nagoochie.  The  Estato  heard 
him  with  cool  composure,  and  though  evidently 
unafraid,  it  was  yet  equally  evident  that  he  was 
unwilling  to  meet  the  challenger  in  strife.  Noi* 
was  his  decision  called  for  on  the  subject.  The 
great  chief  interposed,  and  all  chance  of  conflict 
was  prevented  by  his  intervention.  In  that  pre 
sence  they  were  compelled  to  keep  the  peace, 
though  both  the  Occonies  and  Little  Estatoees 
retired  to  their  several  lodges  with  fever  in  their 
veins,  and  a  restless  desire  for  that  collision  which 
Moitoy  had  denied  them.  All  but  Nagoochie 
were  vexed  at  this  denial ;  and  all  of  them  won 
dered  much  that  a  warrior,  so  brave  and  daring 
as  he  had  always  shown  himself,  should  be  so 
backward  on  such  an  occasion.  It  was  true,  they 
knew  of  his  love  for  the  girl  of  Occony ;  but 


JOCASSEE.  161 

they  never  dreamed  of  such  a  feeling  acquiring 
an  influence  over  the  hunter,  of  so  paralyzing  and 
unmanly  a  character.  Even  Nagoochie  himself, 
as  he  listened  to  some  of  the  speeches  uttered 
around  him,  and  reflected  upon  the  insolence  of 
Cheochee  —  even  he  began  to  wish  that  the  affair 
might  go  over  again,  that  he  might  take  the  hiss 
ing  viper  by  the  neck.  And  poor  Jocassee  — 
what  of  her  when  they  took  her  back  to  the 
lodges  ?  She  did  nothing  but  dream  all  night  of 
Brown  Vipers  and  Green  Birds  in  the  thick  of 
battle. 


VII. 

"  The  next  day  came  the  movement  of  the 
hunters,  still  under  the  conduct  of  Moitoy,  from 
the  one  to  the  other  side  of  the  upper  branch  of 
the  Keowee  river,  now  called  the  Jocassee,  but 
which,  at  that  time,  went  by  the  name  of  Sarratay. 
The  various  bands  prepared  to  move  with  the  day 
light  ;  and  still  near,  and  still  in  sight  of  one  an 
other,  the  Occonies  and  Estatoees  took  up  their 
line  of  march  with  the  rest.  The  long  poles  of 
the  two,  bearing  the  green  bird  of  the  one,  and 
the  brown  viper  of  the  other,  in  the  hands  of  their 
14* 


162  JOCASSEE. 

respective  bearers  —  stout  warriors  chosen  for  this 
purpose  with  reference  to  strength  and  valor  — 
waved  in  parallel  courses,  though  the  space  be 
tween  them  was  made  as  great  as  possible  by  the 
common  policy  of  both  parties.  Following  the 
route  of  the  caravan,  which  had  been  formed  of 
the  ancient  men,  the  women  and  children,  to  whom 
had  been  entrusted  the  skins  taken  in  the  hunt, 
the  provisions,  utensils  for  cooking,  &c.  the  great 
body  of  hunters  were  soon  in  motion  for  other  and 
better  hunting-grounds,  several  miles  distant,  be 
yond  the  river. 

"  The  Indian  warriors  have  their  own  mode  of 
doing  business,  and  do  not  often  travel  with  the 
stiff  precision  which  marks  European  civilization. 
Though  having*all  one  point  of  destination,  each 
hunter  took  his  own  route  to  gain  it,  and  in  this 
manner  asserted  his  independence.  This  had 
been  the  education  of  the  Indian  boy,  and  this 
self-reliance  is  one  source  of  that  spirit  and  cha 
racter  which  will  not  suffer  him  to  feel  surprise  in 
any  situation.  Their  way,  generally,  wound 
along  a  pleasant  valley,  unbroken  for  several 
miles,  until  you  came  to  Big-knob,  a  huge  crag 
which  completely  divides  it,  rising  formidably  up 
in  the  midst,  and  narrowing  the  valley  on  either 
hand  to  a  fissure,  necessarily  compelling  a  closer 


JOCASSEE.  163 

march  for  all  parties  than  had  heretofore  been 
pursued.     Straggling  about  as  they  had  been,  of 
course  but  little  order  was  perceptible   when  they 
came  together,  in  little  groups,  where  the  moun 
tain  forced  their  junction.     One  of  the  Bear  tribe 
found  himself  along  side  a  handful  of  the  Foxes, 
and  a  chief  of  the  Alligators  plunged  promiscu 
ously  into  the  centre  of  a  cluster  of  the  Turkey 
tribe,  whose   own  chief  was  probably  doing  the 
proper  courtesies  among  the  Alligators.     These 
little  crossings,  however,  were  amusing  rather  than 
annoying,  and  were,  generally,  productive  of  little 
inconvenience,  and  no  strife.     But  it  so  happen 
ed,   there  was  one  exception  to  the  accustomed 
harmony.     The  Occonies  and  Estatoees,  like  the 
rest,  had  broken  up  in  small  parties,  and  as  might 
have  been  foreseen,  when  they  came  individually 
to  where  the   crag  divided  the  valley  into  two, 
some  took  the  one  and  some  the  other  hand,  and 
it  was  not  until  one  of  the  paths  they  had  taken 
opened  into  a  little  plain  in  which  the  woods  were 
bald  —  a  sort  of  prairie  —  that  a  party  of  seven. 
Occonies  discovered  that  they  had  among  them 
two  of  their  detested  rivals,  the  Little  Estatoees. 
What  made  the  matter  worse,  one  of  these  strag 
glers  was    the    ill-fated   warrior   who   had    been 
chosen  to  carry  the  badge  of  his  tribe ;  and  there, 


164  JOCASSEE. 

high  above  their  heads  —  the  heads  of  the  Brown 
Vipers  —  floated  that  detestable  symbol,  the  green 
bird  itself. 

"  There  was  no  standing  that.  The  Brown 
Vipers,  as  if  with  a  common  instinct,  were  imme 
diately  up  in  arms.  They  grappled  the  offending 
stragglers  without  gloves.  They  tore  the  green 
bird  from  the  pole,  stamped  it  under  foot,  smear 
ed  it  in  the  mud,  and  pulling  out  the  cone-tuft  of 
its  head,  utterly  degraded  it  in  their  own  as  well 
as  in  the  estimation  of  the  Estatoees.  Not  con 
tent  with  this,  they  hung  the  desecrated  emblem 
about  the  neck  of  the  bearer  of  it,  and,  spite  of 
all  their  struggles,  binding  the  arms  of  the  two 
stragglers  behind  their  backs,  the  relentless  Vipers 
thrust  the  long  pole  which  had  borne  the  bird,  in 
such  a  manner  between  their  alternate  arms  as 
effectually  to  bind  them  together.  In  this  man 
ner,  amidst  taunts,  blows,  and  revilings,  they  were 
left  in  the  valley  to  get  on  as  they  might,  while 
their  enemies,  insolent  enough  with  exultation, 
proceeded  to  join  the  rest  of  their  party. 


JOCASSEE.  165 


VIII. 

"  An  hundred  canoes  were  ready  on  the  banks 
of  the  river  Sarratay,  for  the  conveyance  to  the 
opposite  shore  of  the  assembled  Cherokees.  And 
down  they  came,  warrior  after  warrior,  tribe  after 
tribe,  emblem  after  emblem,  descending  from  the 
crags  around  in  various  order,  and  hurrying  all 
with  shouts  and  whoops  and  songs,  grotesquely 
leaping  to  the  river's  bank,  like  so  many  boys 
just  let  out  of  school.  Hilarity  is,  indeed,  the  life 
of  nature  !  Civilization  refines  the  one  at  the  ex 
pense  of  the  other,  and  then  it  is  that  no  human 
luxury  or  sport,  as  known  in  society,  stimulates 
appetite  for  any  length  of  time.  We  can  only 
laugh  in  the  woods  —  society  suffers  but  a  smile, 
and  desperate  sanctity,  with  the  countenance  of  a 
crow,  frowns  even  at  that. 

"  But  down,  around,  and  gathering  from  every 
side,  they  came  —  the  tens  and  the  twenties  of  the 
several  tribes  of  Cherokee.  Grouped  along  the 
banks  of  the  river,  were  the  boats  assigned  to 
each.  Some,  already  filled,  were  sporting  in 
every  direction  over  the  clear  bosom  of  that  beau 
tiful  water.  Moitoy  himself,  at  the  head  of  the 


166  JOCASSEE. 

tribe  of  Nequassee,  from  which  he  came,  had  al 
ready  embarked  ;  while  the  venerable  Attakulla, 
with  Jocassee,  the  gentle,  sat  upon  a  little  bauk 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Occony  boats,  await 
ing  the  arrival  of  Cheochee  and  his  party.  And 
why  came  they  not  f  One  after  another  of  the 
several  tribes  had  filled  their  boats,  and  were  either 
on  the  river  or  across  it.  But  two  clusters  of 
canoes  yet  remained,  and  they  were  those  of  the 
rival  tribes  —  a  green  bird  flaunted  over  the  one, 
and  a  brown  viper,  in  many  folds,  was  twined 
about  the  pole  of  the  other. 

"  There  was  sufficient  reason  why  they  came 
not.  The  strife  had  begun  ;  —  for,  when  gather 
ing  his  thirteen  warriors  in  a  little  hollow  at  the 
termination  of  the  valley  through  which  they  came, 
Nagoochie  beheld  the  slow  and  painful  approach 
of  the  two  stragglers  upon  whom  the  Occonies 
had  so  practised.  When  he  saw  the  green  bird 
—  the  beautiful  emblem  of  his  tribe  —  disfigured 
and  defiled,  there  was  no  longer  any  measure  or 
method  in  his  madness.  There  was  no  longer  a 
thought  of  Jocassee  to  keep  him  back ;  and  the 
feeling  of  ferocious  indignation  which  filled  his 
bosom  was  the  common  feeling  with  his  brother 
warriors.  They  lay  in  wait  for  the  coming  of  the 
Occonies?  down  at  the  foot  of  the  Yellow  Hill, 


JOCASSEE.  167 

where  the  woods  gathered  green  and  thick.  They 
were  few  — but  half  in  number  of  their  enemies 
—  but  they  were  strong  in  ardor,  strong  in  justice, 
and  even  death  was  preferable  to  a  longer  en 
durance  of  that  dishonor  to  which  they  had  al 
ready  been  too  long  subjected.  They  beheld  the 
approach  of  the  Brown  Vipers,  as,  one  by  one, 
they  wound  out  from  the  gap  of  the  mountain, 
with  a  fierce  satisfaction.  The  two  parties  were 
now  in  sight  of  each  other,  and  could  not  mistake 
the  terms  of  their  encounter.  No  word  was  spoken 
between  them,  but  each  began  the  scalp-song  of 
his  tribe,  preparing  at  the  same  time  his  weapon, 
and  advancing  to  the  struggle. 

"  f  The  green  bird  has  a  bill,'  sang  the  Esta- 
toees  ;  e  and  he  flies  like  an  arrow  to  his  prey.' 

"'The  brown  viper  has  poison  and  a  fang,' 
responded  the  Occonies  ;  '  and  he  lies  under  the 
net  for  his  enemy.' 

"  c  Give  me  to  clutch  the  war-tuft,'  cried  the 
leaders  of  each  party,  almost  in  the  same  breath. 

"  '  To  taste  the  blood,'  cr^ied  another. 

"  '  And  make  my  knife  laugh  in  the  heart  that 
shrinks,'  sung  another  and  another. 

"  '  I  will  put  my  foot  on  the  heart,'  cried  an 
Occony. 

"  ll  tear  away  the  scalp,'  shouted  an  Estato,  in 


168  JOCASSEE. 

reply  ;  while  a  joint  chorus  from  the  two  parties, 
promised  — 

"  '  A  dog  that  runs,  to  the  black  spirit  that 
sleeps  in  the  swamp.' 

"  '  Echa-herrO)  echa-herro,  echa-herroS  was  the 
grand  cry,  or  fearful  warwhoop,  which  announ 
ced  the  moment  of  onset  and  the  beginning  of  the 
strife. 


IX. 


"  The  Occonies  were  not  backward,  though  the 
affair  was  commenced  by  the  Estatoees.  Cheo- 
chee,  their  leader,  was  quite  as  brave  as  malig 
nant,  and  now  exulted  in  the  near  prospect  of  that 
sweet  revenge  for  all  the  supposed  wrongs  and 
more  certain  rivalries  which  his  tribe  had  suffered 
from  the  Green  Birds.  Nor  was  this  more  the 
feeling  with  him  than  with  his  tribe.  Disposing 
themselves,  therefore,  in  readiness  to  receive  the 
assault,  they  rejoiced  in  the  coming  of  a  strife,  in 
which,  having  many  injuries  to  redress,  they  had 
the  advantages,  at  the  same  time,  of  position  and 
number. 

"  But  their  fighting  at  disadvantage  was  not 
now  a  thought  with  the  Little  Estatoees.  Their 


JOCASSEE, 


169 


blood  was  up,  and  like  all  usually  patient  people, 
once  aroused,  they  were  not  so  readily  quieted. 
Nagoochie,  the  warrior  now,  and  no  longer  the 
lover,  led  on  the  attack.  You  should  have  seen 
how  that  brave  young  chief  went  into  battle  — 
how  he  leapt  up  in  air,  slapped  his  hands  upon 
his  thighs  in  token  of  contempt  for  his  foe,  and 
throwing  himself  open  before  his  enemies,  dashed 
down  his  bow  and  arrows,  and  waving  his  hatchet, 
signified  to  them  his  desire  for  the  conflict,  «  Vou- 
trance,  and,  what  would  certainly  make  it  so,  hand 
to  hand.  The  Occonies  took  him  at  his  word, 
and  throwing  aside  the  long  bow,  they  bounded 
out  from  their  cover  to  meet  their  adversaries. 
Then  should  you  have  seen  that  meeting  —  that 
first  rush —  how  they  threw  the  tomahawk  —  how 
they  flourished  the  knife  —  how  the  brave  man 
rushed  to  the  fierce  embrace  of  his  strong  enemy 
—  and  how  the  two  rolled  along  the  hill  in  the 
teeth-binding  struggle  of  death. 

"The  tomahawk  of  Nagoochie  had  wings  and 
a  tooth.  It  flew  and  bit  in  every  direction.  One 
after  another,  the  Occonies  went  down  before  it, 
and  still  his  fierce  war  cry  of  l  Echa-mal-  OcconyJ 
preceding  every  stroke,  announced  another  and 
another  victim.  They  sank  away  from  him  like 
sheep  before  the  wolf  that  is  hungry,  and  the  dis- 

VOL.  ii.  15 


170  JOCASSEE. 

parity  of  force  was  not  so  great  in  favor  of  the 
Occonies,  when  we  recollect  that  Nagoochie  was 
against  them.  They  were  now,  under  his  fierce 
valor,  almost  equal  in  number,  and  something 
more  was  necessary  to  be  done  by  the  Occonies 
before  they  could  hope  for  that  favorable  result 
from  the  struggle  which  they  had  before  looked 
upon  as  certain.  It  was  for  Cheochee  now  to 
seek  out  and  to  encounter  the  gallant  young  chief 
of  Estato.  Nagoochie.  hitherto,  for  reasons  best 
known  to  himself,  had  studiously  avoided  the 
leader  of  the  Vipers  ;  but  he  could  no  longer  do 
so.  He  was  contending,  in  close  strife,  with  Oko- 
nettee,  or  the  One  Eyed  —  a  stout  warrior  of  the 
Vipers  —  as  Cheochee  approached  him.  In  the 
next  moment,  the  hatchet  of  Nagoochie  entered 
the  skull  of  Okonettee.  The  One-Eyed  sunk  to 
the  ground,  as  if  in  supplication,  and,  seizing  the 
legs  of  his  conqueror,  in  spite  of  the  repeated 
blows  which  descended  from  the  deadly  instru 
ment,  each  of  which  was  a  death,  while  his  head 
swam,  and  the  blood  filled  his  eyes,  and  his  senses 
were  fast  fleeting,  he  held  on  with  a  death-grasp 
which  nothing  could  compel  him  to  forego.  In 
this  predicament,  Cheochee  confronted  the  young 
brave  of  Estato.  The  strife  was  short,  for  though 
Nagoochie  fought  as  bravely  as  ever,  yet  he 


JOCASSEE.  171 

struck  in  vain,  while  the  dying  wretch,  grappling 
his  legs,  disordered,  even  by  his  convulsions,  not 
less  than  by  his  efforts,  every  blow  which  the  strong 
hand  of  Nagoochie  sought  to  give.  One  arm  was 
already  disabled,  and  still  the  dying  wretch  held 
on  to  his  legs.  In  another  moment,  the  One-Eyed 
was  seized  by  the  last  spasms  of  death,  and  in  his 
struggles,  he  dragged  the  Estato  chief  to  his 
knees.  This  was  the  fatal  disadvantage.  Before 
any  of  the  Green  Bird  warriors  could  come  to  his 
succor,  the  blow  was  given,  and  Nagoochie  lay 
under  the  knee  of  the  Brown  Viper.  The  knife 
was  in  his  heart,  and  the  life  not  yet  gone,  when 
the  same  instrument  encircled  his  head,  and  his 
swimming  vision  could  behold  his  own  scalp  wav 
ing  in  the  grasp  of  his  conqueror.  The  gallant 
spirit  of  Nagoochie  passed  away  in  a  vain  effort 
to  utter  his  song  of  death  —  the  song  of  a  brave 
warrior  conscious  of  many  victories. 


X. 


"  Jocassee  looked  up  to  the  hills  when  she  heard 
the  fierce  cry  of  the  descending  Vipers.  Their 
joy  was  madness,  for  they  had  fought  with  —  they 
had  slain,  the  bravest  of  their  enemies.  The  in- 


172  JOCASSEE. 

toxication  of  tone  which  Cheochee  exhibited,  when 
he  told  the  story  of  the  strife,  and  announced  his 
victory,  went  like  a  death-stroke  to  the  heart  of 
the  maiden.  But  she  said  not  a  word  —  she  ut 
tered  no  complaint  —  she  shed  no  tear  —  but, 
gliding  quietly  into  the  boat  in  which  they  were 
about  to  cross  the  river,  she  sat  silent,  gazing,  with 
the  fixedness  of  a  marble  statue,  upon  the  still 
dripping  scalp  of  her  lover,  as  it  dangled  about 
the  neck  of  his  conqueror.  On  a  sudden,  just  as 
they  had  reached  the  middle  of  the  stream,  she 
started,  and  her  gaze  was  turned  once  more  back 
ward  upon  the  banks  they  had  left,  as  if,  on  a  sud 
den,  some  object  of  interest  had  met  her  sight,  — 
then,  whether  by  accident  or  design,  with  look  still 
intent  in  the  same  direction,  she  fell  over  the  side, 
before  they  could  save  or  prevent  her,  and  was 
buried  in  the  deep  waters  of  Sarratay  for  ever. 
She  rose  not  once  to  the  surface.  The  stream, 
from  that  moment,  lost  the  name  of  Sarratay,  and 
both  whites  and  Indians,  to  this  day,  know  it  only 
as  the  river  of  Jocassee.  The  girls  of  Cherokee, 
however,  contend  that  she  did  not  sink,  but  walk 
ing  *  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life,'  that  she  re 
joined  Nagoochie,  whom  she  saw  beckoning  to 
her  from  the  shore.  Nor  is  this  the  only  tradition. 


JOCASSEE, 


173 


The  story  goes  on  to  describe  a  beautiful  lodge, 
one  of  the  most  select  in  the  valley  of  Manneyto, 
the  hunter  of  which  is  Nagoochie  of  the  Green 
Bird,  while  the  maiden  who  dresses  his  venison  is 
certainly  known  as  Jocassee," 


15* 


THE  CHEROKEE  EMBASSAGE. 


"  Where  go  these  messengers — 

These  untamed  lords  of  the  forest,  —  whither  speed 
Their  barks  o'er  unknown  waters  —  to  survey 
What  land  of  blue  delight,  what  better  shore, 
More  grateful  to  the  hunter  than  the  last  V 


THE 


CHEROKEE   EMBASSAGE. 


IT  was  deemed  prudent,  soon  after  the  close  of 
a  trying  war  with  the  savages,  to  conciliate  the 
Cherokee  nation,  then  one  of  the  largest  in  the 
colony  ;  and  Sir  Alexander  Gumming,  himself 
an  ostentatious  person,  was  fitly  chosen  for  this 
purpose.  Charged  with  proposals  of  alliance, 
and  amply  provided  with  gifts,  more  imposing 
than  valuable,  to  the  several  leading  chiefs  and 
sages,  this  gentleman,  in  the  beginning  of  the 
year  1730,  set  forth  for  the  Apalachian  moun 
tains,  in  the  neighborhood  of  which  the  principal 
towns  of  the  Cherokees  were  situated.  He  was 
attended  on  this  occasion,  as  well  by  several 
voluntary  travellers,  as  by  a  numerous  military 
retinue;  and  no  circumstance  was  omitted,  of  dis 
play  or  pomp,  which  could  impress  upon  the  abo- 


178  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

rigines  an  idea  of  the  vast  power  of  that  foreign 
potentate,  whose  representative  was  then  to  appear 
before  them.  Every  expense  called  for  by  the  de 
putation  was  cheerfully  conceded  on  the  part  of 
the  royal  government,  as  the  king  well  knew  the 
great  military  strength  of  the  people,  whom  it  was 
the  object  to  conciliate.  The  Cherokees  inhabiting 
South  Carolina  at  this  time,  were  as  numerous  as 
they  were  brave.  The  inhabitants  of  thirty-seven 
regular  towns,  were  computed  to  amount  to  twenty 
thousand.  Of  these,  six  thousand  were  bowmen, 
ready,  on  any  emergency,  to  take  the  field.  In 
addition  to  this  force,  which  may  be  considered 
the  regular  force  of  the  nation,  the  roving  tribes 
were  supposed  to  reach  several  thousand  more  ; 
not  so  easy  to  be  brought  together,  but,  if  possi 
ble,  far  more  dangerous  to  an  enemy  when  once 
collected,  as,  from  their  continual  habit  of  wan 
dering,  they  grew  even  fiercer  than  the  wild  beasts, 
in  whose  pursuit  only  they  seemed  to  live. 

It  was  some  time  before  Sir  Alexander  reached 
Keowee,  a  distance  of  three  hundred  miles  or  more 
from  Charleston.  His  way,  for  the  most  part, 
lay  through  a  wilderness,  seldom,  if  ever  before, 
trodden  by  European  footsteps.  It  was  a  dreary 
pilgrimage,  and  it  was  no  small  satisfaction  to  the 
English,  when,  as  they  attained  the  outskirts  of  the 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  179 

Cherokee  territory,  the  chiefs  of  the  lower  town, 
hearing  of  their  approach,  came  forth  to  receive 
and  to  guide  them  still  farther  on  their  way.  Ee- 
Jistoe^  the  chief  of  the  Green  Birds  or  Little  Esta- 
toees,  Chulochkolla,  the  sachem  of  the  Occonies, 
and  Moitoy,  the  Black  Warrior  of  Telliquo,  the 
most  renowned  of  all  their  braves,  thus  joined  the 
jaded  cavalcade. 

Sir  Alexander  Gumming  hailed  them  with  a 
flourish ;  and,  having  disposed  of  his  retinue,  be 
fore  their  approach,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  show 
them  to  the  best  possible  advantage,  he  was  pleased 
to  think  that  he  had  made  a  favorable  impression. 
He  was  not  deceived.  The  wondering  savages 
—  themselves  ostentatiously  decorated,  according 
to  their  sylvan  fashion,  in  all  the  rich  plumage  of 
their  native  birds,  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
hideous  paint,  and  rugged  skins,  which  formed  so 
large  a  part  of  their  ceremonial  equipment —  were 
nevertheless  overcome  by  the  more  imposing  splen 
dors  of  the  deputation.  The  glittering  armor  — 
the  gorgeous^uniform  of  the  English,  shining  in 
gold  and  scarlet — the  lofty  plumes —  the  plunging 
and  richly  caparisoned  horses  —  together  with  the 
thrilling  military  music  of  an  English  band  —  all 
combined  to  overpower  their  imaginations,  and  to 
impress  the  deeply  excited  senses  of  the  Chero- 


180  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

kees;  and  though,  like  the  Roman  Fabricius,  they 
were  not  to  be  surprised,  and  suffered  neither  awe 
nor  irreverent  curiosity  to  appear  upon  their  faces, 
or  in  their  gesticulation,  they  were  all  nevertheless 
strongly  wrought  upon  by  both  these  emotions. 

Sir  Alexander  lost  no  time  in  securing  the  friend 
ship  of  the  chiefs,  as  they  severally  came  forth  to 
meet  him.  He  received  them  in  great  state,  and 
to  each  gave  some  particular  present,  so  carefully 
chosen  as  to  avoid  all  chance  of  showing  a  prefer 
ence  to  any  one,  thus  giving  offence  to  the  rest. 
This  caution  had  its  due  results.  The  chiefs  were 
all  well  satisfied,  and  Moitoy,  the  Black  Warrior 
of  Telliquo»  not  to  be  outdone  in  these  respects, 
brought  from  Tenassee,  the  principal  town  of  the 
nation,  the  crown  of  the  Great  Keowee,  the  old 
chief  and  reigning  sovereign  —  a  monarch  too  po 
tent,  according  to  his  own  and  his  people's  estima 
tion,  to  be  even  looked  upon  by  strangers.  The 
policy  of  the  suspicious  savage  had  much  to  do 
with  this  strange  seclusion.  His  person,  like  that 
of  Montezuma,  was  considered  ^cred,  and  a 
proper  watch  was  maintained  over  it  according^. 
Thus,  though  able  to  have  annihilated  the  entire 
force  under  Gumming  in  a  single  effort,  it  was  yet 
thought  advisable  to  risk  nothing,  by  the  exposure 
of  a  commodity  so  susceptible  to  injury  as  a  reign- 


THE  CHEROKEE  EMBASSAGE. 


381 


ing  sovereign  ;  and  with  the  first  annunciation, 
therefore,  of  the  approach  of  the  English,  Keowee, 
a  decrepid  and  almost  blind  old  man,  was  hurried 
bodily  away  from  the  contiguous  country,  more 
deeply  than  before  into  the  thick  forests,  and  among 
the  impassable  barriers  of  rock,  which  girdled  in 
and  covered  their  extended  territory.  To  M oitoy, 
and  the  other  chiefs  or  kings,  was  entrusted  the 
task  of  receiving  and  providing  for  the  strangers ; 
and,  to  do  them  all  justice,  the  reception  was  such 
as  became  a  brave  and  honorable  people.  The 
fruits  and  flesh,  the  maize  and  provisions,  to  which 
they  were  themselves  accustomed,  were  all  freely 
provided ;  and  five  eagle  tails,  and  four  scalps 
from  slaughtered  enemies,  were  also  among  the 
presents  brought  by  Moitoy.  These  had  a  signi 
fication  which,  through  the  interpreter,  the  dusky 
warriors  explained  to  the  satisfaction  of  their  Eu 
ropean  visiters.  The  feathers  of  the  eagle  marked 
the  strength  and  the  glory  alike  of  Cherokee,  and 
the  scalp  of  their  enemies  announced  the  unerring 
certainty  of  Cherokee  victory  and  vengeance. 
These  were  presented  to  the  English,  in  token  that 
henceforward  their  course  should  be  trodden  on 
the  same  war  path,  in  close  affinity,  and  against 
the  same  enemies. 

VOL.  n.  16 


182  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

Thirty-two  chiefs,  each  paramount  with  his  own 
tribe  and  section,  appeared  at  the  solemn  council 
which  followed.  A  great  deal  of  pompous  talk 
was  uttered,  and  Moitoy  of  Telliquo,  the  Black 
Warrior,  found  such  high  favor  with  Sir  Alexan 
der,  that  he  nominated  him  as  the  commander-in- 
chief  of  the  Cherokee  armies,  and  presented  him 
with  a  rich  robe  as  a  badge  of  his  new  office.  The 
chiefs  present  agreed  to  recognise  him  as  such, 
provided  that  there  should  be  a  like  accountability 
to  him,  (Sir  Alexander,)  on  the  part  of  Moitoy. 
Every  thing  went  on  amicably,  and,  emboldened 
by  the  friendly  disposition  which  the  savages 
evinced,  the  English  ambassador  proposed  that 
some  of  them  should  accompany  him  to  England, 
in  order,  with  their  own  eyes,  to  behold  that  great 
king,  of  whom  he  had  given  them  a  most  flaming 
description. 

"  Your  brother,  King  George,"  said  he,  in  a 
speech  which  was  well  remembered  by  the  atten 
tive  chiefs,  "  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  He  will 
load  you  with  presents,  with  hatchets  and  knives, 
with  rich  clothes,  and  beautiful  feathers.  He  will 
bind  you  to  his  heart  with  a  bright  gold  chain, 
which  will  last  unbroken  for  a  thousand  years." 

"  He  is  our  brother,"  replied  the  chiefs  with  one 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  183 

voice,  dazzled  by  the  glorious  promise  —  "  he  is 
our  brother — we  will  go  to  our  brother  George." 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  getting  the  proposed 
deputation  ;  the  only  difficulty,  indeed,  was  in 
making  a  selection  from  the  number  of  those  offer 
ing.  Unconscious  of  the  length  of  the  voyage,  of 
its  dangers,  and  the  new  and  unaccustomed  scenes 
and  circumstances  through  which  they  would  have 
to  go  before  realizing  the  prospects  set  before  them, 
the  simple  savages,  each  a  king  in  his  own  coun 
try,  were  readily  persuaded  to  undertake  the  em- 
bassage  which  promised  them  so  much  enjoyment. 
The  gold  and  the  glitter  —  the  fine  armor  like  that 
which  Sir  Alexander  wore  —  the  pomp  and  the 
display,  which,  through  the  interpreter,  the  En 
glishman  dwelt  upon  in  the  most  glowing  language 
—  were  irresistible  ;  and,  full  of  the  splendors  of 
their  brother  George,  they  threw  the  bear  skins 
about  their  shoulders,  filled  their  quivers  with  fresh 
arrows  from  the  canebrake,  and  kissing  the  sunny 
side,  one  after  the  other,  of  the  broad  tree  that 
covered  them  during  the  progress  of  the  council, 
they  bade  their  farewell  to  the  green  forests,  and 
the  wild  free  country,  their  eyes  might  never  again 
behold. 

Six    of  them    accompanied    Sir  Alexander   to 
Charleston,  and  thence,  having  been  there  joined 


184  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

by  another  chief  who  followed  them  after  a  brief 
delay,  they  embarked  with  him  for  Europe.  The 
eldest  of  these  chiefs,  or  kings,  was  Tonestoi, 
prince  of  Nequassee,  a  once  formidable,  but  now 
decayed  warrior,  and  a  good  old  man.  He  was 
renowned  among  the  Cherokees  for  his  wisdom. 
The  next  in  order  was  the  famous  orator,  Skiaja- 
gustha — a  man  whose  eloquence  performed  won 
ders  in  the  councils  of  his  people,  and  of  whose 
speeches,  some  occur  upon  our  own  historical  re 
cords,  not  unworthy  to  appear  in  any  collection. 
Next  came  Chulockholla,  another  orator,  neither 
so  old  nor  so  well  renowned  as  Skiajagustha.  The 
chief  of  the  Occonies,  or  Brown  Vipers,  Cenestee, 
was  the  fourth  of  this  delegation  —  a  chief  only 
remarkable  for  the  reckless  audacity  of  his  valor. 
The  fifth  was  a  gallant  young  warrior  of  the  Little 
Estatoees,  or  Green  Birds,  Ee-fistoe — a  warrior 
intelligent  as  valiant,  and  not  any  thing  less  amia 
ble  because  of  his  acknowledged  bravery.  Occo- 
nostota  made  the  sixth.  He  was  the  king  of  Ech- 
otee,  and  could  himself  bring  three  hundred  war 
riors  into  the  field ;  but  he  was  something  of  a 
tyrant,  and  was  deposed  the  very  year  after  his  re 
turn  from  Europe.  The  seventh,  who  joined  the 
deputation  in  Charleston,  was  a  chief  also,  but 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  185 

his  name  does  not  appear  in  our  history.     He  was 
probably  of  no  great  renown. 

These  were  the  Cherokee  kings,  who,  consent 
ing  to  the  invitation  of  Sir  Alexander  Gumming, 
sailed  with  him  in  the  Swallow  Packet,  for  Lon 
don,  some  time  in  the  month  of  May,  1730.  Se 
duced  by  the  glowing  pictures  spread  before  their 
minds  by  the  English  agent,  full  of  expectation, 
and  flushed  with  the  promise  of  so  many  novelties, 
the  wild  men  of  the  woods,  wrapped  in  their  hun 
ter  garbs,  gorgeously  covered  with  fresh  paint, 
and  armed  to  the  teeth,  after  the  fashion  of  their 
people,  fearlessly  went  on  board  the  little  vessel 
that  awaited  them,  and,  with  favoring  breezes, 
were  soon  lost  to  the  sight  of  land,  and  plunging 
steadily  over  the  bosom  of  the  Atlantic. 

The  sea  —  a  new  element  to  the  Cherokees  — 
exacted  its  dues,  and  it  was  not  many  hours  before 
the  warriors  grew  heartily  sick  of  their  unusual 
undertaking.  Much  would  they  have  given  to  be 
once  more  in  their  native  forests,  but  they  were  too 
brave,  and  too  well  taught  in  the  stoical  morality 
of  the  savage,  to  confess  to  any  such  weakness. 
They  had  long  before  learned,  that,  to  conquer,  it 
is  first  necessary  that  we  should  bear  with,  our  fate, 
and  they  withstood,  accordingly,  as  well  as  they 

could,  the  storms  and  the  tossings  of  the  waters,  in 
J6* 


186  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

a  manner  by  no  means  discrediting  their  creed  or 
nation.  They  grew,  in  a  little  time,  familiar  with 
their  new  abiding  place,  and,  as  the  initial  sickness 
passed  away,  soon  began  to  contemplate,  with 
comparative  steadiness  and  a  growing  apprecia 
tion,  all  the  various  objects  and  aspects  of  their 
new  domain. 

All  was  strange  —  all  was  wonderful  around 
them.  Their  own  complete  isolation  —  the  ab 
sence  of  the  woods  and  wilds  to  which  only  they 
had  been  accustomed  —  their  initiation  into  a  world 
so  new  and  strange,  as  to  them  was  that  of  ocean 
—  the  singular  buoyancy  of  their  ship  —  the  as 
tonishing  agility  of  the  seamen,  moving  about  with 
ease  and  dexterity,  where  they  could  scarcely 
maintain  the  most  uncertain  foot-hold  —  these  were 
all  matters  of  profound  astonishment  and  curiosity. 
But  these  were  all  as  nothing,  after  the  first  blush 
of  novelty  had  passed  away,  in  comparison  with 
the  queer  tricks  and  uncouth  antics  of  one  of  the 
ship's  company.  This  was  no  less  than  a  monkey, 
belonging  to  one  of  the  sailors,  named  Jacko  —  a 
creature  of  habitual  trick  and  mimicry,  continually 
provoked  to  its  exercise  by  some  one  or  other  of 
the  seamen.  He  ran  along  the  ropes  and  rigging 
in  pursuit  of  them.  He  mounted  the  spars,  and 
sat  in  uncouth  shapes  in  the  most  dangerous 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  187 

places.  He  carried  off  the  caps  of  the  sailors,  then 
pelted  them  down  upon  those  who  walked  the  deck. 
In  short,  nothing  in  the  semblance  of  mischief  was 
omitted  by  Jacko.  Tonestoi,  the  venerable  elder 
of  the  Indian  chiefs,  was  absolutely  ravished  by 
the  tricks  of  the  sportive  monkey.  He  had  no 
thought  for  any  other  object  than  Jacko.  He 
watched  his  movements  by  the  hour,  provoked 
their  exercise  by  continual  stimulating  affronts,  and 
laughed,  in  despite  of  the  grave  looks  of  his  bro 
ther  chiefs,  as  immoderately  as  if  such  had  been 
his  continual  practice.  Tonestoi  was  an  ancient 
chief,  renowned  as  much  for  wisdom  as  for  valor, 
and  he  presumed  upon  his  reputation.  He  there 
fore  gave  vent  to  his  merriment  without  any  fear  of 
losing  either  his  own  or  the  general  respect  of  his 
people.  The  other  chiefs,  who  -were  all  younger, 
were  either  differently  situated  in  rank,  or  were  not 
altogether  so  secure  in  the  estimation  of  their  peo 
ple  ;  and,  though  equally  delighted  with  Tonestoi, 
were  yet  prudent  enough  to  preserve  a  greater  de 
gree  of  gravity.  They  looked  on  with  composure ; 
and,  while  watching  closely  all  the  sports  of  Jacko, 
they  yet  forebore  to  take  any  part  in  the  merriment. 
But  the  old  chief  had  no  such  scruples,  and  his 
laughter  was  without  reserve.  He  played  with 
Jacko  like  a  child  —  rolled  with  him  about  the 


188  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

decks  —  hallooed  him  on  to  all  manner  of  mischief 

—  clapped  his  hands  and  cheered  him  in  his  per 
formance,  and  then,   in  his  own  language,  pro 
nounced  a  high  eulogy  upon  his    achievements. 
He    called    him    "  Hickisiwackinaw,"    or    "  the 
warrior  with  a  tail ;"  and  at  length,  when  he  saw 
Jacko  swing  by  his  hind  legs  from  a  rope,  and, 
with  his  paws,  grapple  and  take  fast  hold  upon 
the  bushy  poll  of  one  of  the  sailors  as  he  walked 
beneath,  he  called  him  "  Toostenugga,"  after  the 
celebrated  leader  of  the  Cherokee  hobgoblins  — 

—  this  being  one  of  the  favorite  modes  by  which 
Toostenugga,  suspending  himself  from  a  tree,  laid 
hold  of,  and  punished,  those  who  offended  him,  as 
they  walked  beneath.     Nothing  could  divert  the 
attention  of  Tonestoi  from  the  monkey.     Sir  Al 
exander   Gumming,  whose  sense  of  dignity  was 
greatly  outraged  by  such  unbecoming  levity,  tried 
his  best  to  attract  the  mind  of  the  Cherokee  to 
more  dignified  amusements  ;  and,  in  his  vexation, 
was  with  difficulty  restrained  from  tumbling  Jacko 
overboard,  hopeless  of  any  other  means  of  obtain 
ing  his  object.     He  made  a  show  of  anger  towards 
the  monkey,  but,  upon  beholding  the  sudden  gra 
vity  of  Tonestoi  as  he  comprehended  this  design, 
he  thought  it  only  wise  to  forbear,  as  it  was  his 
policy,  as  well  as  his  orders,  to  avoid  all  manner 


THE  CHEROKEE  EMBASSAGE.       189 

of  offence.  His  dernier  resort  then  was  in  his 
liquors,  and  once  made  acquainted  with  their  po 
tency,  the  old  chief,  Tonestoi,  was  soon  taught  to 
prefer  the  intoxicating  cup  to  the  antics  of  his  more 
innocent  companion.  Jacko,  or,  as  he  called  him 
to  the  last,  Toostenugga,  ceased  to  attract  so  much 
of  his  attention,  and,  to  the  shame  of  all  parties 
be  it  said,  the  good  old  warrior,  after  this,  had 
scarcely  a  sober  hour  until  they  reached  the  haven 
of  their  destination. 

Their  arrival  in  London  was  the  signal  for  much 
bustle  and  exhibition.  Apart  from  the  desire  to 
impose  greatly  on  their  senses  by  shows  and  splen 
dors,  to  which,  in  their  wild  abodes,  they  had  never 
been  accustomed,  the  better  to  acquire  dominion 
over  them,  they  received  a  thousand  attentions  as 
the  last  new  lions  in  the  metropolis.  Lords  and 
ladies  thronged  the  hotel  at  which  the  Cherokee 
kings  were  lodged,  and  the  beautiful  squaws  of 
London,  as  was  more  recently  the  case  in  our  own 
country,  submitted  joyfully  to  the  salute  of  the  In 
dian  warriors  for  the  sake  of  its  novelty.  Feasts 
were  given  them  in  profusion  —  frolics  conceived 
on  purpose  to  make  them  actors  ;  and  from  the  day 
of  their  arrival  to  that  of  their  departure,  all  was 
uproar  and  exultation.  In  all  these  junkettings,  it 
need  scarcely  be  said  that  our  Cherokees  preserved 


190  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

happily  their  usual  equanimity  of  character.  They 
were  grave  and  composed,  and  behaved,  for  all 
the  world,  as  if  they  had  been  accustomed  all  their 
lives  to  such  honors  and  indulgences.  Tonestoi, 
alone,  of  all  the  deputation,  gave  way  to  the  gar 
rulous  good  humor  of  the  aged  man.  He  laughed 
and  joked  freely  with  his  visiters,  and  nothing  gave 
him  such  profound  pleasure  as  when  his  great 
cheek  bones  and  painted  lips  came  in  contact  with 
the  velvety  skin  of  his  lady  visiters.  Never  had 
Cherokee  warrior  so  given  way  before  to  all  the 
practices,  and  so  many  of  the  evidences,  of  la  Idle 
passion.  So  much  was  this  the  case,  that  his  more 
youthful  companions  began  to  have  doubts  as  to 
the  tenacity  of  that  superior  wisdom  in  the  ancient 
chief  which  had  been  a  proverb  in  his  own  coun- 
try. 

But  if  the  general  acquaintance  with  the  In 
dians,  and  their  usual  deportment,  prevailed  with 
and  gave  satisfaction  to  the  English  nobility,  their 
conduct  in  the  interview  with  the  king  completed 
the  merriment,  and  furnished  a  fitting  climax  to 
the  whole  proceeding.  Seized  somewhat  with  the 
spirit  of  the  fashion  in  reference  to  them,  and  de 
sirous  of  securing,  by  a  proper  policy,  the  affec 
tions  of  these  people,  the  British  monarch  desired, 
and  determined  to  do  them  particular  honor.  An 


THE  CHEROKEE  EMBASSAGE.      191 

especial  drawing-room  was  appointed  them,  and, 
in  the  presence  of  a  most  brilliant  and  imposing 
assemblage,  he  prepared  to  receive  his  distin 
guished  visiters.  Sir  Alexander  Gumming,  who 
had  the  chiefs  in  charge,  attempted,  before  going 
to  court,  to  give  them  certain  instructions  as  to 
their  behavior  in  the  presence  of  majesty  ;  but 
they  either  did  not,  or  would  not,  understand  him. 
They  comprehended  sufficiently  his  object,  how 
ever,  and  the  native  pride  of  an  aboriginal  chief 
rose  in  arms  at  his  suggestion.  Skiajagustha,  the 
orator,  was  the  first  to  take  fire  at  what  seemed  an 
indignity.  Wrapping  his  bear  skin  around  him 
with  a  majesty  which  George  himself,  in  all  his 
career,  and  with  the  best  teachers,  never  could 
have  emulated,  he  looked  scornfully  upon  his 
would-be  tutor,  while  he  replied  : 

"  Skiajagustha  is  the  great  mouth  of  Cherokee  — 
he  has  stood  before  his  nation  when  Keowee,  the 
red  arrow,  was  there.  His  words  are  good.'* 

The  interpreter  explained  ;  but,  as  similar  sen 
timents  were  uttered  by  nearly  all  the  party,  Sir 
Alexander  saw  that  it  would  not  only  be  idle,  but 
most  probably  offensive,  were  he  to  endeavor  to 
teach  them  farther.  As  they  approached  the  chair 
of  state,  in  which  sat  the  monarch,  the  aged  To- 
nestoi  took  the  advance.  The  king  rose  as  he 


192  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

drew  nigh,  and  came  forward,  extending  his  hand 
for  the  usual  salute,  as  he  did  so,  to  the  approach 
ing  Indian.  But  Tonestoi,  remembering  his  own 
dignity,  and  what  had  been  said  to  him  on  the 
score  of  the  relationship  between  them,  prior  to  his 
leaving  his  own  country,  to  the  great  horror  of  the 
courtiers,  and  of  Sir  Alexander  Gumming  in  par 
ticular,  grasped  the  extended  hand  of  the  English 
monarch  with  his  own,  and,  giving  it  a  squeeze 
that  none  but  a  bear  could  well  have  equalled, 
shook  it  heartily  and  long,  exclaiming,  in  the  few 
words  of  courtesy  which  he  had  committed  in  bro 
ken  English, 

"  Huddye-do,  Broder  George  —  huddye-do  — 
glad  to  see  you"  —  and,  continuing  with  a  smile 
as  he  looked  round  upon  the  women  —  "  You  got 
plenty  squaws." 

The  court  was  convulsed  and  shocked  beyond 
measure.  All  were  astounded  except  the  king 
himself,  and  the  savages.  George,  with  his  usual 
good  nature,  withdrawing  his  hand,  though  with 
some  difficulty,  from  the  powerful  gripe  of  his  bro 
ther  monarch,  smiled  pleasantly,  and,  amused  with 
the  familiarity,  responded  in  similar  style,  giving 
the  cue  to  those  around  him.  Nothing  then  could 
exceed  the  hilarity  with  which  the  business  of  the 
conference  was  carried  on  and  finished.  The 


THE    CHEROKEE    E  MB  ASS  AGE.  193 

kings  made  long  speeches  through  the  interpre 
ters,  satisfactory  on  all  sides,  and  a  treaty  of  alli 
ance  was  then  and  there  agreed  upon  between 
them,  to  be  valid  and  binding  upon  the  Cherokees 
and  English  in  America,  as  they  were  avowed  to 
be  so  by  both  parties  present  then  in  England. 

We  quote  portions  of  this  treaty,  as  it  not  only 
presents  us  with  much  of  the  eloquence  employed 
by  the  several  contracting  parties,  but  also  gives 
us  some  idea  of  the  various  topics  of  trade  and  com 
munion,  rendering  such  a  treaty  between  people 
so  dissimilar  essential  to  the  mutual  good.  It  will 
be  found,  however,  that  the  performance  of  duties 
devolves  much  more  frequently  upon  the  Indian 
than  upon  the  white  man,  and  that  his  rewards, 
estimated  by  our  standards  of  use  and  value,  are 
quite  inadequate  to  the  services  required  at  their 
hands.  Doubtless,  however,  they  were  such  as 
were  best  calculated  for  the  uninstructed  savage. 

The  preamble  to  this  treaty  recites, 

"  That  whereas  the  six  chiefs,  [without  naming 
them,  and  without  any  reference  to  the  chief  who 
unquestionably  joined  the  embassy  at  Charleston, 
when  about  to  sail,]  with  the  consent  of  the  whole 
nation  of  Cherokees,  at  a  general  meeting  of  their 
nation  at  Nequassee,  were  deputed  by  Moitoy, 
their  chief  warrior,  to  attend  Sir  Alexander  Cum- 

VOL.  n.  17 


194  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

raing  to  Great  Britain,  where  they  had  seen  the 
great  king  George,  and  where  Sir  Alexander,  by 
authority  from  Moitoy  and  all  the  Cherokees,  had 
laid  the  crown  of  their  nation,  with  the  scalps  of 
their  enemies,  and  feathers  of  glory,  at  his  ma 
jesty's  feet,  as  a  pledge  of  their  loyalty ;  —  and 
whereas  the  great  king  has  instructed  the  lords 
commissioners  of  trade  and  plantations,  to  inform 
the  Indians,  that  the  English  on  all  sides  of  the 
mountains  and  lakes,  were  his  people,  their  friends 
his  friends,  their  enemies  his  enemies  ;  that  he  took 
it  kindly  that  the  great  nation  of  Cherokee  had 
sent  them  so  far  to  brighten  the  chain  of  friendship 
between  him  arid  them,  and  between  his  people 
and  their  people  ;  that  the  chain  of  friendship  be 
tween  him  and  the  Cherokee  is  now  like  the  sun, 
which  shines  both  m  Britain  and  upon  the  great 
mountains  where  they  live,  and  equally  warms  the 
hearts  of  Indians  and  Englishmen  ;  that,  as  there 
is  no  spot  or  blackness  in  the  sun,  so  neither  is 
there  any  rust  or  foulness  on  this  chain  ;  and,  as 
the  king  has  fastened  one  end  to  his  breast,  [suit- 
ing  the  action  to  the  word,  in  George's  best  and 
bluffest  style,]  he  desired  them  to  carry  the  other 
end  of  the  chain  and  fasten  it  to  the  breast  of  Moi 
toy,  of  Telliquo,  and  to  the  breasts  of  all  their 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  195 

wise  old  men,  their  captains   and   people,  never 
more  to  be  made  loose  or  broken. 

"  The  great  king  and  the  Cherokees  being  thus 
fastened  together  by  a  chain  of  friendship,  he  has 
ordered,  and  it  is  agreed,  that  his  children  in  Ca 
rolina  do  trade  with  the  Indians,  and  furnish  them 
with  all  manner  of  goods  they  want,  and  to  make 
haste  to  build  houses  and  plant  corn  from  Charles 
ton  towards  the  towns  of  the  Cherokees  behind  the 
great  mountains.  [Vague  enough,  and,  like  most 
treaties  with  the  Indians,  carried  on  through  dis 
honest  or  imperfect  interpreters,  not  understood  by 
one  of  the  parties,  and  a  frequent  source  of  mischief 
afterwards.]  That  he  desires  the  English  and 
Indians  may  live  together  as  children  of  one  family 
— that  the  Cherokees  be  always  ready  to  fight 
against  any  nation,  whether  white  men  or  Indians, 
who  shall  molest  or  hurt  the  English  —  that  the 
nation  of  the  Cherokee  shall,  on  its  part,  take 
care  to  keep  the  trading  path  clean  —  that  there 
be  no  blood  on  the  path  which  the  English  tread, 
even  though  they  should  be  accompanied  with  other 
people  with  whom  the  Cherokees  may  le  at  war — 
[what  an  exaction — how  is  it  possible  that  the 
Cherokees  should  have  understood  this  charge, 
or,  understanding,  that  they  should  have  complied 
with  it  ?] — that  the  Cherokees  shall  not  suffer  their 


]96  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

yeoyjle  to  trade,  with  ivhite  men  of  any  oilier  nation 
but  the  English — [here  is  monopoly  with  a  ven 
geance!] — nor  permit,  [mark  this,]  nor  permit 
white  men  of  any  other  nation  to  Iniild  any  forts  or 
cabins,  or  plant  any  corn  among  them,  upon  lands 
which  belong  to  the  great  king." 

Such  was  the  morality  of  these  selfish  traders. 
They  actually  excluded  the  savages  from  the  exer 
cise  of  those  wonted  rites  of  hospitality  to  white 
men,  and  to  Christians  like  themselves,  (for  the 
French  and  Spaniards  were  contemplated  by  this 
clause,)  which  the  Cherokees  had  freely  accorded 
to  the  British,  and  which  they  must  otherwise  have 
extended  freely  to  all  others.  The  treaty  goes  on 
to  provide,  that,  if  any  such  attempt  shall  be  made 
by  the  white  men  of  any  other  than  the  British 
nation,  the  Cherokees  must  not  only  acquaint  the 
British  government  of  the  fact,  but  must  do  what 
ever  he  directs,  in  order  to  maintain  and  defend 
the  "  great  king's  right  to  the  country  of  Caro 
lina."  The  treaty  further  provides,  "  that  if  any 
negroes  shall  run  away  into  the  woods  from  their 
English  masters,  the  Cherokees  shall  endeavor  to 
apprehend  them,  and  bring  them  to  the  plantation 
from  whence  they  ran,  or  to  the  governor." 

Hitherto  the  contract  has  been  all  on  one  side, 
and  the  English  king  has  never  said  "  Turkey," 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  197 

once,  to  his  Cherokee  brother ;  but,  at  this  stage 
of  the  treaty,  he  seems  to  have  recollected  himself, 
and,  accordingly,  we  find  him  promising,  that, 
"  for  every  slave  so  apprehended  and  brought 
back,  the  Indian  that  brings  him  shall  receive  a 
gun  and  a  watch  coat ;  and  ify  by  any  accident,  it' 
shall  happen  that  an  Englishman  shall  kill  a  Che 
rokee,  [an  event  only  possible,  it  seems,]  the  king 
or  chief  of  the  nation  shall  first  complain  to  the 
English  governor,  and  the  man  who  did  the  harm 
shall  be  punished  by  the  English  laws  as  if  he  had 
killed  an  Englishman;  and,  in  like  manner,  if  any 
Indian  happens  to  kill  [by  any  accident  is  entirely 
wanting  here]  an  Englishman,  the  Indian  shall  be 
delivered  up  to  the  governor,  to  be  punished  by 
the  same  English  laws  as  if  he  were  an  English 
man." 

This  was  the  substance  of  the  first  treaty  be 
tween  the  British  and  the  Cherokee  nation  ;  and  a 
precious  specimen  it  is,  of  cunning  beguiling  sim 
plicity,  and  of  unfair  relationship  between  parties 
originally  contracting  on  an  equal  footing  of  ad- 
vantage.  The  Cherokee  chiefs  heard  it  first  from 
the  lips  of  George,  who  paused  at  every  sentence, 
and,  as  the  interpreter  explained  it,  clause  by 
clause,  a  nobleman  presented  to  the  expecting 
chiefs  a  rich  present  of  cloths  or  ornaments, 
17* 


198  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

When  the  king  had  got  through  his  task,  he  sud 
denly  withdrew  through  a  private  door,  glad  to 
escape  any  farther  embrace  from  his  Cherokee 
brethren.  The  further  business  of  the  treaty  was 
then  concluded  by  Alured  Popple,  secretary  to  the 
lords  commissioners  of  trade  and  plantations,  on 
the  one  side,  and  by  the  marks  of  the  Indian 
chiefs  on  the  other.  The  secretary,  at  the  same 
time,  addressed  them  in  a  speech  confirming  the 
words  of  the  great  king  whom  they  had  just  seen  ; 
and,  as  a  token  that  his  heart  was  true  and  open 
to  the  Cherokees,  a  belt  was  given  the  warriors, 
which  the  king  desired  them  to  show  to  their 
children  and  children's  children,  to  confirm  what 
was  now  spoken,  and  to  bind  this  agreement  of 
peace  and  friendship  between  the  English  and 
the  Cherokees,  "  as  long  as  the  rivers  shall  run, 
the  mountains  shall  stand,  or  the  sun  shall  shine." 
Such  wras  the  glowing  termination  of  the  secre 
tary's  speech.  When  he  had  concluded,  the  old 
chief  Tonestoi  gave  way  to  Skiajagustha,  the  fa 
mous  orator,  who  seemed  to  know  his  own  claims  to 
reply  for  the  rest.  Gathering  his  robe  over  his 
left  shoulder,  so  as  entirely  to  free  the  right  arm,  he 
began  his  reply,  the  greater  portion  of  which  is 
preserved  as  follows.  It  will  be  found  to  contain 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  199 

quite  as  much  good  sense,  dignity,  and  beauty,  as 
was  called  for  by  the  occasion  : 

"  We  are  come  hither  from  the  mountains,  where 
there  is  nothing  but  darkness.  But  we  are  now 
in  a  place  of  light.  We  see  the  great  king  in 
you  —  we  love  you  as  you  stand  here  for  him. 
We  shall  die  in  this  thought.  The  crown  of  Che 
rokee  is  not  like  that  in  the  tower  ;  but,  to  us.  they 
are  the  same  —  the  chain  shall  be  carried  to  our 
people.  The  great  king  George  is  the  sun  —  he 
is  our  father  —  the  Cherokees  are  his  children. 
Though  we  are  red  and  you  are  white  —  yet  our 
hearts  and  hands  are  tied  together.  We  shall  say 
to  our  people  what  we  have  seen,  and  our  children 
shall  remember  it.  In  war  we  will  be  one  with 
you  — your  enemies  shall  be  ours  —  we  shall  live 
together  as  one  people  —  we  shall  die  together. 
We  are  naked  and  poor  as  the  worms  that  crawl 
— but  you  have  all  things.  We  that  have  nothing 
must  love  you.  We  will  never  break  the  chain 
that  is  between  us.  This  small  rope  we  show  you 
is  all  that  we  have  to  bind  our  slaves  —  You  have 
chains  of  iron  for  yours.  We  will  catch  your 
slave  that  flies  —  we  will  bind  him  as  strongly  as 
we  can,  and  we  shall  take  no  pay  when  we  bring 
him  back  to  you.  Your  people  shall  build  near 
ours  in  safety.  The  Cherokee  shall  hurt  them 


200  THE    CHEROKEE    EMEASSAGE. 

not  —  he  shall  hurt  nothing  that  belongs  to  them. 
Are  we  not  children  of  one  father  —  shall  we  not 
live  and  die  together  ?" 

Here  he  paused,  and  one  of  the  other  chiefs 
coming  forward  at  a  signal  from  the  speaker,  pre 
sented  him  with  a  bunch  of  eagle  feathers.  Tak 
ing  them  in  his  hand,  Skiajagustha  presented  them 
to  the  secretary  with  these  words  : 

"  This  is  our  way  of  talking,  which  is  the  same 
thing  to  us  as  your  letters  in  the  book  to  you. 
These  feathers,  from  the  strong  bird  of  Cherokee 
—  these  shall  be  witnesses  for  the  truth  of  what  I 
have  said.1' 

Thus  discoursing  eloquently  together,  the  par 
ties  contracted  to  their  mutual  satisfaction,  and 
however  unequal  were  the  general  advantages  ob 
tained,  there  was  certainly  no  dissatisfaction  ex 
pressed  among  them.  The  terms  were  agreed 
upon  without  discontent  or  difficulty,  and  it  will 
not  be  premature  or  anticipative,  in  this  stage  of 
our  narration,  to  say,  in  the  language  of  the  histo 
rian,  Ramsay,  that  in  consequence  of  this  treaty, 
the  Cherokees,  for  many  years  after,  remained  in 
"  a  state  of  perfect  friendship  and  peace  with  the 
colonists,  who  followed  their  various  employments 
in  the  neighborhood  of  these  Indians,  without  the 
least  terror  or  molestation." 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  201 

But  the  nine  days'  wonder  was  now  over  in  the 
British  metropolis.  The  Indian  chiefs  began  to 
lose  their  importance  in  the  sight  of  their  Euro 
pean  brethren.  Some  new  monster  soon  occupied 
their  place,  and  Sir  Alexander  Gumming  being 
now  prepared  to  return  to  Carolina,  and  the  vessel 
ready  to  depart,  they  had  little  reluctance  at  leav 
ing  a  land,  where,  though  every  kindness  and 
courtesy  had  been  shown  them,  they  had  found  so 
few  objects  and  features  at  all  like  or  kindred  with 
their  own.  They  set  sail  from  England  on  the 
23d  September,  1730,  and,  under  favoring  aspects 
of  wind  and  weather,  were  soon  out  upon  the  com 
prehensive  world  and  void  of  ocean. 

But  the  second  voyage  was  more  tedious  to  the 
chiefs  than  the  first.  That  had  novelty  to  recom 
mend  it  —  the  strange  mass  of  all  objects  at  sea, 
relieved,  in  the  first  instance,  its  general  monotony. 
But  the  second  brought  all  this  home  to  them  ; 
and,  what  added  to  their  dulness  still  more,  was 
the  absence  of  Jacko  —  the  monkey  was  no  lon 
ger  one  of  their  fellow  passengers.  The  sailor 
who  owned,  had  sold  him,  while  in  London,  and 
nothing  could  exceed  the  dissatisfaction  of  old  To- 
nestoi,on  hearing  of  the  circumstance.  The  first 
thing  he  did  on  coming  aboard  the  vessel,  was  to 
call  aloud  for  Toostenugga.  But  he  called  in 


202  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

vain,  and  was  with  difficulty  made  to  understand, 
that  his  goblin  acquaintance  was  left  behind  them. 
He  refused  consolation,  and  chafed  and  almost 
quarrelled  with  those  who  offered  it.  He  drank 
with  Sir  Alexander  Gumming  ;  but  that  was  all,  in 
the  way  of  relief  or  amusement,  that  he  could  be 
persuaded  to  do.  In  a  state  of  moody  absence, 
as  soon  as  his  fit  of  sea  sickness  was  well  over,  he 
roamed  about  the  ship,  tumbling  from  side  to  side, 
and,  in  his  own  language,  muttering  continually 
of  Toostenugga.  Dreadfully,  indeed,  did  he  suf 
fer  from  blue  devils,  and,  in  this  mood,  shooting 
with  his  arrows  wantonly  at  little  spots  in  the  sails, 
he  soon  exhausted  all  his  quiver,  as  the  flying 
shafts  would  generally,  after  a  few  discharges,  find 
their  way  into  the  bosom  of  the  ocean.  The  other, 
and  younger,  chiefs  bore  the  voyage  with  far  more 
philosophy  than  their  ancient  comrade  ;  and  with 
that  aptness  which  belongs  to  man  in  all  situa 
tions,  and  which  we  have  erringly  denied  to  the 
Aborigines,  they,  at  length,  began  to  accommo 
date  themselves  to  the  novel  employments  of  the 
sea.  Skiajagustha,  the  great  orator  himself,  was 
the  first  to  set  an  example  of  this  discipline.  He 
seized  upon  the  ropes  on  one  occasion,  and  began 
to  tug  away  lustily  along  with  the  sailors.  His 
companions  followed  him,  all  but  old  Tonestoi, 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  203 

and,  from  a  sport  at  first,  it  grew  to  be  a  common 
resort  for  exercise  among  them.  Sir  Alexander 
Gumming,  however,  thought  such  practices  unbe 
coming  in  those  who  had  royal  blood  in  their 
veins  ;  but,  as  there  was  no  alternative,  he  could 
suggest  no  objection.  To  Tonestoi,  alone,  he 
could  address  himself;  and,  as  the  old  chief  took 
no  part  in  the  amusements  of  his  companions,  he 
was  the  more  ready  to  sit  gloomily  and  gravely 
over  the  lengthened  glass  with  the  Englishman. 
But  his  ennui  continued  to  increase,  and,  at  length, 
to  the  great  consternation  of  Sir  Alexander,  the 
poor  savage  grew  sick,  and  his  free  habit  of  drink 
ing  only  made  him  worse.  The  liquor  was  then 
withdrawn  from  him ;  and  this  seemed  to  increase 
his  malady.  The  attack  was  a  very  severe  one, 
and,  unhappily,  but  few  precautions  had  been  taken 
against  such  an  occasion.  There  were  scarcely 
any  medicines  on  board  ;  and  even  these,  the  old 
chief,  with  all  the  fretful  obstinacy  of  a  spoiled 
child,  could  not  be  persuaded  to  take.  Day  by 
day  he  grew  worse,  and  it  now  became  evident  to 
all  that  the  danger  was  alarming.  The  younger 
chiefs  assembled  about  him,  and  Sir  Alexander, 
with  deep  concern,  strove,  through  them,  to  per 
suade  him  to  the  adoption  of  those  remedies  which 
he  proposed.  He  resolutely  rejected  all  their 


204  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

suggestions,  and  tossing  about  in  his  fever,  from 
side  to  side,  he  exhibited  a  feeble  peevishness  to  all 
around  him  —  his  own  people  not  excepted.  Se 
veral  days  passed  over  in  this  manner,  and  it  was 
evident  to  all  that  he  had  sunk  amazingly.  At 
this  stage  of  his  illness,  and  while  he  was  chafing 
querulously  with  all  of  them,  Skiajagustha  ap 
proached  him  where  he  lay.  The  brow  of  the 
orator  was  stern  and  full  of  rebuke,  and  the  first 
words  which  he  uttered,  in  his  own  sweet  but  so 
lemn  and  emphatic  language,  rivetted  the  atten 
tion  of  the  dying  warrior.  He  ceased  to  tumble 
upon  his  couch  —  he  ceased  to  chafe  and  chide 
those  about  him.  The  appeal  of  Skiajagustha  had 
been  made  to  his  manhood  —  to  his  sense  of  the 
dignity  and  the  courage  of  a  brave  of  Cherokee: 

"  Shall  Tonestoi  go  to  the  Manneyto  with  the 
word  of  a  child  on  his  tongue  ?  Shall  he  say  to 
the  Master  of  Life,  wherefore  hast  thou  called  me? 
The  brave  man  has  another  spirit  when  the  dark 
spirit  wraps  him. 

"  Tonestoi  —  it  is  the  word  of  the  Cherokee  — 
is  a  brave  among  the  braves.  He  has  taken  scalps 
from  the  light-heeled  Catawba  —  he  has  taken 
scalps  from  the  cunning  Shawanese  —  he  has  taken 
scalps  from  the  Creek  warrior  that  rages  —  he  has 
taken  scalps  from  all  the  enemies  of  Cherokee. 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  205 

He  should  have  a  song  for  his  victories,  that  the 
Great  Manneyto  shall  be  glad  to  receive  him." 

"  Achichai-me !"  cried  Tonestoi  in  reply  —  and, 
in  his  own  language,  proceeded  as  follows  : 

"It  is  good,  Skiajagustha — it  is  good  what  thou 
hast  spoken.  But  I  heard  nqt  before  the  words  of 
the  Great  Manneyto.  I  hear  them  through  thee. 
He  has  called  me  —  I  hear  him  speaking  in  the 
heart  of  Tonestoi  —  I  am  going  to  the  land  of 
spirits  —  to  the  plum  groves  where  my  fathers 
journey  on  the  long  hunt.  I  am  not  afraid  to  go, 
The  Master  of  Life  knows  I  am  ready." 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  sang  a  moment  after  — 

"  Ha !  ha !  I  laugh  at  my  enemies.  The  Ca- 
tawba  could  not  take  the  scalp  —  he  could  not 
drink  blood  from  Tonestoi.  Ha  !  ha !  That  for 
the  Shawanee  —  that  for  the  Creek  that  rages  — 
that  for  all  the  enemies  of  Cherokee.  The  Mas 
ter  of  Life  only  can  kill,  and  Tonestoi  is  ready*  for 
him. 

"  Bring  me  arrows,  Skiajagustha — bring  me  ar 
rows,  young  Ee-fistoe  of  the  Green  Birds  —  bring 
me  arrows,  young  braves  of  Cherokee  —  the  ar 
rows  shall  speak  for  my  victories." 

They  brought  him  arrows  at  his  request,  and  he 
separated  the  bundles,  laying  each  shaft  by  itself. 
The  younger  chiefs  curiously  gathered  around 

VOL.  n.  18 


206  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE", 

him,  as  they  well  knew  they  were  now  to  hear  a 
chronicle  of  his  own  and  his  country's  achieve 
ments  ;  and  for  every  arrow,  he  had  the  story  of 
some  brave  adventure  —  some  daring  deed.  One 
of  them  stood  for  his  first  battle  with  the  Chicka- 
saw,  when,  yet  a  mere  boy,  he  went  forth  with  his 
old  father,  Canonjahee,  on  the  war  path  against 
that  subtle  nation.  Another  arrow  was  made  to 
signify  his  escape  from  a  band  of  roving  Shawa- 
nese  who  had  made  him  a  prisoner  while  hunting; 
a  third  told  the  affair  with  the  Creeks,  for*  his  bra 
very  in  which  his  countrymen  had  made  him  a 
chief — feather  chief  and  arrow  chief;  a  fourth 
recounted  his  long  personal  combat  with  Sarrata- 
hay  ofSantee,  the  big  boned  chief  from  that  river, 
who  had  come  up  on  purpose  to  contend  with  him, 
at  the  lower  town  of  Chinebee.  Tonestoi  was  the 
victor  after  a  long  struggle,  and  this  he  dwelt  upon 
theTnost  emphatically  of  all  his  victories.  And 
so,  with  a  dozen  other  events,  he  associated  the 
arrows.  For  an  hour  his  strain  proceeded,  and 
the  Indians  listened  with  unrelaxing  attention. 
Sir  Alexander  Gumming,  apprised  of  the  nature 
of  the  scene,  hung  over  the  dying  chief  with  the 
deepest  interest ;  and  even  the  sailors,  several  of 
them  came  as  nigh  to  listen  as  they  well  might 


THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE.  207 

without  manifest  impropriety.  The  old  man  lay 
silent  for  some  time  after  his  song  was  ended.  But 
his  chosen  arrows  had  all  been  carefully  gathered 
up  by  Skiajagustha,  who  tied  them  closely  toge 
ther  with  the  sinews  of  the  deer.  Towards  eve 
ning  the  chief  grew  much  weaker,  and  he  mut 
tered  fitfully,  and  started  every  now  and  then  like 
one  from  sleep.  When  the  sun  was  about  to  set, 
its  faint  delicate  light  streamed  through  the  little 
aperture  in  the  cabin  just  where  the  dying  man 
lay.  He  started  and  strove  to  raise  himself  up  to 
behold  the  orb  now  sinking  like  himself.  But  fail 
ing  to  do  this,  he  only  raised  his  right  hand  and 
waved  it  towards  the  bright  object  which  he  could 
not  see.  Skiajagustha  bent  towards  him,  and  ut 
tered  two  or  three  words  in  his  own  language,  at 
which  all  the  other  chiefs  rose  and  bent  over  him. 
Tonestoi  gave  each  of  them  a  look  of  recognition, 
and,  while  muttering  a  brief  sentence,  probably  one 
of  parting,  his  lower  jaw  suddenly  dropped,  then 
caught  up  as  in  a  spasm,  then  as  suddenly  again 
relaxed  and  fell,  never  again  to  move.  The  light 
grew  dim  in  the  eyes  which  yet  opened  upon  the 
spectators. 

Skiajagustha  laid  the  bunch  of  arrows  upon  the 
breast  of  Tonestoi,  where  they  remained  until  the 


208  THE    CHEROKEE    EMBASSAGE. 

next  day,  when  his  body  was  committed  to  the 
deep.  They  were  then  carefully  preserved  by  the 
survivors,  as  witnesses  of  the  whole  transaction, 
and  received  as  such  by  the  people.  They  form 
one  of  the  tokens  of  Cherokee  valor,  and  are  pre 
served  to  this  very  hour,  among  the  trophies  of  the 
nation. 


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u  Shortly  after  the  publication  of  M.  De  Tocqueville's  work 
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then  expressed  our  opinion  of  it,  as  '  by  far  the  most  philosophical, 
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ites, 

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Lolme  has  been  long  established,  and  we  think  this  of  M.  De 
Tocqueville  scarcely  less  remarkable,  as  a  clear,  accurate,  and 
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the  philosophy  of  our  constitution.  The  study  of  such  a  work 
by  our  young  men,  we  need  not  add,  will  be  of  invaluable  ser 
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GEORGE  ADLARD,  NEW  YORK. 


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and,  in  endeavoring  to  explain  to  his  countrymen  what  he  had 
studied  so  carefully  and  profoundly,  he  has  traced  these  peculiar 
ities  and  their  consequences  with  more  clearness,  precision,  and 
minuteness,  than  any  of  our  own  writers  have  ever  done." — New 
York  Evening  Post. 

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we  may  add  profit,  and  few,  wd  feel  confident,  will  continue  to 
be  more  often  consulted.  M.  De  Tocqueville  looked  at  our  coun 
try  and  its  institutions  with  an  intelligence  and  a  discrimination 
that  were  neither  warped  one  way  nor  the  other."  "  It  is  an  ex 
cellent  work,  and  much  more  valuable  from  the  labors  of  the  Ame 
rican  editor.  Mr.  Spencer's  notes  are  just  and  judicious,  without 
exception."  "  The  publisher  has  got  it  up  excellently  well,  and 
used  a  type  and  paper  equal  to  the  value  of  the  work." — New 
York  Gazette. 

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are  under  to  Mr.  Reeve,  who  has  accomplished  in  so  admirable  a 
manner  the  difficult  task  of  rendering  in  English,  not  only  the 
letter ;  but  the  spirit  of  a  foreign  language.  Nor  can  we  do  other 
wise  than  bear  testimony  to  the  excellence  of  the  notes  and  preface 
furnished  by  our  talented  fellow  citizen,  Mr.  Spencer.  It  is  rare  , 
to  meet  with  a  single  volume  in  which  so  much  ability  of  differ 
ent  individuals  is  united.  This  book  ought  certainly  to  be  in  the 
hands  of  every  person  who  desires  to  familiarize  himself  with 
the  institutions  under  which  he  lives.  The  very  superior  style  of 
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Gennarty.  These  facts  attest  the  faVor  with  which  the  work 
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add  materially  to  the  value  of  the  edition.  Their  object  is  chiefly 
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in  Pathological  Anatomy  made  at  the  "  Hospice  des  Enfans 
Trouves,"  at  Paris,  under  the  superintendence  of  Mons.  BARON. 
Translated  from  the  third  French  edition,  with  notes, 

By  JAMES  STEWART,  M.  D. 

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